


You've Always Lived Alone

by Jberry



Series: Hamish [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Doctor John Watson, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Character Death, Out of Character Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parent John Watson, Parentlock, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past implied child sexual abuse, Single Parent John Watson, mary watson is gone before this starts, unrealistic (acting outside of age range) child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson and his son for the first time at a crime scene.</p><p>co-Gifted to allfinehere - who wrote the best parentlock in my opinion - "Learning Curve" and to Treelight - who always has an encouraging word that makes me want to write my best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken Ribs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allfinehere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfinehere/gifts), [Treelight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treelight/gifts).



> Check tags for added trigger warnings. Most upsetting tags are past references. They are not graphic, but heavily implied, and may be triggering for some readers.  
> The National Sexual Assault Hotline is 1-800-656-HOPE (U.S.) or in the UK visit thesurvivorstrust.org

The crime scene was frenetic. 

Normally only allowed in after the victim was dead and the initial evidence gathered, Sherlock had arrived when a second victim had been found barely alive in an alley near the first murder. A doctor, walking home with his son, had seen the commotion and flashing lights. As his duty, he paused to see if he could help, and heard gurgling in the alley.

The static murder scene progressed into chase. 

The doctor, a shorter man, blonde, with a horrible mustache, had taken chase after a man half naked and covered in blood. The doctor had shouted at the ambulance crew, "Neck first, now," which caused the murderer to make a run for it from behind a large dumpster. 

The murderer assumed the doctor or the ambulance crew wouldn’t run after him, or that they would block the police from getting to him. The murderer just saw a _doctor_ \- but he didn't observe. 

Observing from the first moment, Sherlock could tell from the doctor's pace and demeanor that he expected his commands to be obeyed without question. He carried his arm at a slight angle, his ankle turning. Military, injured, doctor. Also, from his gait Sherlock could just see the outline of a weapon in the back of his trousers, hidden by his leather jacket. 

As the murderer ran from behind the dumpster, the doctor yelled "watch my son" in the general direction of the police. The young boy, maybe 7 or 8, was standing near Lestrade. Sherlock took off in the doctor's general direction, calculating a cut off based on the sounds of the scuffling and the thumps of feet against the pavement. Sherlock turned a corner around the building, miscalculating slightly, and ran nearly headfirst into the murderer.

_stupid. stupid. he still has his long medical knife._

Sherlock felt the first slice near his ribs, and a punch. He crumpled, giving a roundhouse kick to the man as he started to fall. He scrambled away, crawling on hands and knees, as the man stabbed at his calves, his thighs, as if he was attempting to pin the detective down with his knife. 

Sherlock heard a crack, echoing from one end of the building's walls to another. 

The pressure of hands and knife let up on his legs, but when Sherlock tried to move, he couldn't. He was dizzy, and eyesight was leaving him in white and black spots at the edges of his vision. 

He looked up to see the doctor, steady with his gun in his left hand, aiming it down behind Sherlock. 

He heard some commotion that sounded miles away, but his eyes closed before he could say anything.


	2. Bleary Awakening

Sherlock has woken in hospitals of all sorts with all types of injuries. When he's on a case, he doesn't eat or drink much, so when the case is nearly done, and he's injured towards the end of it, he collapses. A normal person may have the reserves to stay awake, or fight off the final assault, but Sherlock never does. He prays he lives, collapses, and wakes in hospital. It's for the best, as he lives alone. 

The beep of a heart monitor, carts rolling in the hallway, shuffling of clothing nearby. He's in the bed nearest the door and turned on his side, facing the middle of the room. A nurse has wedged a pillow behind him. He feels stitches pull and itch across his legs and his ribs are wrapped tightly with linen that starts under his arms and ends at his navel.

The rustiling of clothing gets louder, more impatient. Mycroft must be sitting next to the chair by his bed, so Sherlock snaps his eyes open. There is no Mycroft. He sees the wide, blue eyes of a child not inches from his face. 

Sherlock grimaces and pushes backwards in pain so he can see the child more clearly, "What are you doing…." It hurt to breathe, and his vision is coming in clearer waves and fuzzy interludes. 

The young boy is leaning over the bedrail with his chin in his hands. "Hello."

Sherlock blinks. He can't recall being alone with a child, even when _he was_ a child. Children aren't really his _area._

"Who are you? Why are you here?" 

"Are you a detective? I saw you looking at things with a magnifying glass. We were watching the scene with the policemen and the detectives. I made daddy go down that street so we could see it better. We were watching. I saw you working, then you chased after the bad guys with daddy, but then you ran into the bad guy, and you would've died if daddy didn't save you by shooting him. He broke your ribs and stabbed your calf and the back of your thigh, narrowly missing your femoral artery with a six inch blade -"

Sherlock blinks throughout the child's speech. Every time he opens his mouth to get a word in, or to ask him to leave, the child launches into another tirade. 

"Daddy is making a round check on other patients. All the other patients on the step down unit have friends or family here. This unit is for serious, life threatening injuries but with a good chance of recovery. You're here alone, and you're my daddy's age according to your chart, and it says 'S' which means you're single. Based on your age, you might not have parents that are alive-"

"They're alive." Sherlock squeaks out, "I just, _I_ only visit _them,_ they don't know how dangerous my work is."

"Do they know how to stitch? My daddy stitched you up. Look, here's my knee. I bashed it on the playground swing and daddy came to school with his kit and cleaned up my wounds and stitched it in front of all my friends. They thought he was so cool."

They young boy pulled up his pant leg and proudly showed up a scar under his right knee that was about one and a half inches diagonal. It was a thin scar, which did indicate expert stitching.

"The body in the street was stretched out like in mid run, reaching to the alley."

Sherlock had a wild thought that this might be how others feel when he went on about his deductions. He was fuzzy minded with medication, and this child was talking so quickly while jumping topics, Sherlock had mentally mapped the sentences to stay on the trail.

"He was in mid run, to the alley, the way he was splayed out. I told daddy to look in the alley, because if the dead guy was looking in the alley, or running to the alley, the bad guy might be in the alley, or someone else important was there. Why would you run away to an alley? Daddy heard the gurgling, then you started chasing, but ran yourself into the bad guy, and almost died. Daddy called you an idiot."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. 

"Sorry, daddy says that's a bit not good when I talk too much and I tell everything."

"No," Sherlock huffed his breath in, willing the pain in his lungs to subside for a moment, "That was amazing, actually, to understand it was abnormal for someone to run to an alley. Extraordinary."

The boy looked up at Sherlock, smiling just slightly, "Most people don't call it amazing,"

"What do they normally say?"

"Things daddy won't let me say."

Sherlock laughed, then held his side as pain radiated from his ribs and legs. He flinched. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Detective, I can go get daddy-" The boy, blonde haired, lanky, covered in freckles, did his best to straighten up his wrinkled clothes as he stood up.

As the boy moved to go into the hallway, an older couple, in their mid to late 60s, entered the room. They were dressed in casual clothing, their hair messed in all directions on their heads. Silvery gray hair indicated they had been blonde when younger, and the grandpa had the same lopsided grin as the young boy. 

"Hi grandma! Hi grandpa!" the boy jumped up, wrapping himself in a hug between them both. 

The woman wrapped her arms around the boy and brought him round to Sherlock's head again, "Young man, would you like your head raised up? How are you feeling?"

Sherlock hadn't ever woken up with others in his hospital room before. The staff in all the local hospitals knew better, after previous failed attempts, than to place him with any type of roommate. They provided the minimum care needed, then let him do as much as he could for himself. This was not cruel, or neglectful. This is how he had trained the staff with his prior behavior. Being alone was he liked it. He was the one who nursed himself back, staring at walls until the nurses and doctors made their rounds, approving him fit enough to go home, lying him if he needed to about someone being with him to take care of him. 

Not waiting for Sherlock to answer, the older woman, the grandma, fixed up Sherlock's blankets, adjusted his pillows, gently raised his head, and, most likely out of habit, smoothed his hair out of his eyes. She smiled at him, "Johnny said you took quite a fall with the murderer. You were out for almost 12 hours. I hope Hamish wasn't talking your ear off. He does that."

_Johnny, the doctor. Hamish, the little boy._

"No, it's fine. I'm just a little, a little lost today. I'm enjoying the company."

"He said I was amazing and extraordinary. He didn't get mad when I told him that daddy called him an idiot. He thought it was good that I noticed the dead body was reaching for the alley, which is where the other victim was."

The grandmother clicked at him, "Why do you like those crime scenes, Hamish?"

"I like to help. I didn't kill anyone," The grandmother and grandfather blushed, looking over at Sherlock. Sherlock just smiled back. 

"I like that your name is Sherlock Holmes. It's weird, like mine. I get made fun of. Did you get made fun of for your name?" Hamish had sat back down, pulling his chair right up to Sherlock's nose again, "Should I call you Mr. Holmes, or Mr. Detective? I'm not sure what's proper-"

"Hamish!" A sharp voice shushed from the corner. 

"But daddy, he said I was amazing and extraordinary and didn't get mad when I told him you called him an idiot!" Sherlock considered that the boy must be quite proud of his deductions and the praise from a stranger. He considered most people were highly impatient with him, and Sherlock couldn't be too sure he wouldn't have snapped at him already if his ribs weren't broken. 

The doctor stood just inside of the doorway, white lab-coat, grabbing Sherlock's chart off the end of the bed. Hamish continued talking, "That's my daddy, most grown-ups call him Dr. Watson, or Captain Watson if they are his army buddies. He is very good at stitching and surgery and fixing people up and he's brave."

Dr. Watson was grinning as he flipped through Sherlock's chart, but he lifted his eyes enough to look around the room, "The patient needs rest as well."

"I, I don't mind. It's been nice to have someone to talk to-" Sherlock coughed, gasping for air. He felt sharp pain in his lungs, his sides. Dr. Watson came close, gently moving Hamish out of the way. He used his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's chest and heart, gently running his fingers over the rib binding. 

"Do you have family, Mr. Holmes?"

Hamish began speaking, "He has some but I don't really think so because they're not here-" The grandpa squeezed Hamish's shoulder and he was quiet. 

"Yes," He winced in pain, "My parents are on vacation and my brother Mycroft and brother in law DI Lestrade are going on a belated honeymoon. Didn't know if you'd," he kept coughing, "met him at the crime scene?"

"Gregory Lestrade?" Dr. Watson smiled, "We went to University together. Played Rugby. I couldn't make the wedding, sent along a ridiculous gift of poorly written crime novels-" 

Sherlock smiled, "You sent that? You're 'Three Continents Watson?' " 

Dr. Watson blushed, "Just call me John."

"What does 'Three Continents Watson' mean, daddy?"

John blanched, opening his eyes wide in panic. 

Sherlock answered, "It means he's traveled. Been to at least three continents."


	3. Yellowing Bruises

Sherlock spent thirty two more hours in the hospital. Dr. John Watson - _John_ \- isn't on rotation but he visits Sherlock twice the following day, bringing Hamish in the afternoon. 

"How do your ribs feel now? How's your breathing?"

Sherlock attempted to talk, but he kept coughing, only able to convey with a raspy voice that he could only breathe shallowly. As Hamish sat and read a book, John looked over Sherlock thoughtfully. 

"You're being discharged today. Where are you going?"

Sherlock winced, attempting to push himself up on his forearm, "Home, where I always go."

John crossed his arms. Rubbing his mustache thoughtfully, "Who else is at home?"

"It's none of your concern."

Hamish piped up, looking up at both men from his open book, "Daddy, he doesn't have anyone. There aren't any flowers, and he doesn't have any missed call messages from the nurse's desk. His coat is well worn on the back hem, but well kept on the front. No one sees him to tell him the coat is fraying, so he only takes care of what he can see alone. You've been looking at your phone all day, daddy, call Uncle Greg."

"Hamish, please don't do this to him-"

"Daddy!" Hamish jumped out of his hair, "I'm just telling you what I _see!_ He can't go home alone. He needs help getting up and down out of the bed, but he's not sick enough to stay here-"

"Mr. Holmes, I apologize for my son, he's, he's extremely bright and he can pick things apart which can be disconcerting. Is there arrangements we can make for someone to stay with you, or call in some other family members on your behalf--"

" _hello? John? Are you there?_ "

John and Sherlock looked at one another. It was Greg's voice. John turned around. Hamish had grabbed John's cell phone out of his pocket and was holding it up, on speaker phone. 

"Hi Uncle Greg. Uncle Mycroft's brother was hurt and he can't be alone. We are here at the hospital. I know you're on your sex holiday-"

"Oh sweet Jesus-" John reached for the phone.

"Ssshh daddy, I'm talking!" Hamish scrambled to the other side of the other empty bed, "So, should Mr. Detective stay with Daddy and me? He's having a hard time."

"Sweetheart, where's your daddy? Why are you calling me to ask?"

"Uncle Greg, I have to make sure he's not a psychopath, not that you'd work with psychopaths, but is it ok if he stays with us? He's all alone?"

"Hamish Scott Watson please hand the phone to your father," Hamish knew the tone of voice, so he took the phone off speaker and handed it to his father. 

John gave Sherlock an apologetic look, then tilted his head as he listened. Sherlock could just hear the voice of Greg and the deeper voice of Mycroft on the other line. 

Sherlock could tell by the way John's eyes moved from Sherlock's elbow crook to his eyes and back down again. He flicked his chin and pulled at Sherlock's hospital gown, a silent _may I see?_

John blocked Hamish's view, but ran his fingers over Sherlock's arms. He kept his eyebrows raised as he touched both arms. 

"Hamish, go to the nurse's station." The captain voice. Hamish obeyed without question. 

Sherlock could hear Mycroft speaking, Greg adding sentences. John only interrupted with a few spaced words: "But Hamish… only eight… guarantee… how could you…" 

John hung up the phone, lips pursed in a thin line. He inhaled shortly, "You will come home with us. I am only doing this as a favor to my best friend and his husband. I understand addiction, but I am less than thrilled about bringing a former cocaine addict into my home-"

Sherlock opened his mouth, John held up his hand. 

"Gregory assures me he conducts random drug raids and tests as part of your Consulting Detective agreement and you've been clean for five years. I will bring you home to be cared for but if my son is exposed to any bad habits....."

Sherlock had never seen a more thunderous, dangerous look on a man's face. 

"You, you don't have to. I can go home." Sherlock was shaking with the effort of breathing and trying to speak without coughing. 

John shook his head, "Gregory and my son have both asked for me to take you home. I can't say no. Don't disappoint us." 

John walked out, and Sherlock could hear he and Hamish chatting away as they walked down the hallway. 

Sherlock upped the number on his morphine drip so he could fall asleep.


	4. Rearview Mirror

John had just shut the rear door on Sherlock, who was now in his dress shirt and suit. Sherlock had kept the Belstaff off and laid it on his lap so he could look at the back. The boy was right. No one was at home to tell him the back hem was fraying. 

When John had shuffled himself into the driver's seat, looking into the rearview mirror at Sherlock, "Are you ok with this? They'll be gone at least another week or so?"

Sherlock leaned forward to look into John's eyes, "Are you still ok with me?" 

John nodded his head, "Yes."

Hamish turned again to Sherlock, "So, Mr. Detective, do you go to crime scenes all the time? Are you friends with Uncle Greg? He has parties and I've never seen you before. I go and play games with his kids, but sometimes they get tired of playing with me because I play different games-"

John interjected, "Hamish, Mr. Holmes is probably tired."

"No, I'm not, and you can call me Sherlock. I'm used to just being alone with my violin or my skull to keep me company."

Hamish's eyes widened, "You have a skull? And a violin?"

"Yes, I have a skull, a gift from an older friend who gave me his skull when he passed away. I'd cleared his wife off a murder charged, and prevented her from spending the last five years of her life in prison. As a gift, he agreed to donate his skull to me after he passed away, donating the rest of his body to science."

John audibly gasped. Hamish squealed in delight, "That is so awesome! That's like the best friendship present ever!"

Sherlock smiled at the excited child, "Yes, he was a very good friend."

"Are you friends with daddy? Or Uncle Greg?"

Sherlock looked out the window for a moment, arranging his thoughts in the correct order. Truthful, but not harsh. This was his methodology developed after years of practice, "I have known _of_ your daddy for a long time through Greg and my brother, but I don't recall meeting him until the recent incident with the murderer in the alley. Mycroft and I are brothers, but we are 7 years apart, and at times we have not been very close, so I don't know Greg as well as well as I should. Since he's my brother-in-law now, that should change."

"Do you have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend?" Hamish asked. John made a choked noise from the front seat, but Sherlock held up his hand and mouthed _it's okay_ into the rearview mirror so John could see. 

"No, girlfriends aren't really my area. I've had a boyfriend, but don't have one now."

"Who are your friends now?" 

"Well, I am usually working, I don't really-"

Hamish smiled, unconsciously pulling at Sherlock's coat that was draped over the seat, "So you're unattatched, like me. A loner."

Sherlock looked up into the rearview mirror. John's eyes looked tired, and a little wet. He tried for a joke, "Hamish, you're too young for a girlfriend, or a boyfriend."

"I know that, daddy. You just worry about me not having friends. Mr. Detective - Sherlock - doesn't have friends - and he solves crimes and stuff."

Sherlock didn't look at John in the rearview mirror, looking out the window instead.


	5. Scotched Pills

Sherlock was overwhelmed. John gave up his bed and agreed to sleep on the couch. Hamish offered to give up his bed as well, explaining "Mr. Detective would love the planetarium blankets and glow in the dark stars on the ceiling." Eventually, when John discovered just how lumpy the couch was, John would sleep on the floor of Hamish's room with all the extra blankets and pillows in the house. 

Sherlock tried to object, in a wheezing voice as his ribs pained him. John's sharp answer was, "I was in the army and slept on sand. I'll be _fine._ " Hamish whispered loudly in Sherlock's ear, as if translating a foreign language, "Mr. Detective, that's his _Captain John Watson_ voice. You just have to do what he says when he uses that voice. No arguments." The men laughed, but John replied, "It's true."

Hamish was quite put out when the grown ups were going to stay up past his bedtime, using the only child-like vernacular Sherlock had heard from Hamish thusfar. He was grumbling that "he couldn't wait until he was growed up so he could do what he wanted." When he was asleep, in the room just off the living room, and Sherlock was settled on the couch as comfortably as he could be, John brought him a small tumbler of scotch and some pain pills. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

"Shut up and drink it with the pills. I'm a doctor. It won't kill you."

Sherlock smiled, the scotch was good. He found breathing and just sitting more and more uncomfortable, so he was hopeful the pain pills would take the edge off enough so he could sleep. He hated laying in bed, alone with his thoughts, unable to easily get up and wander, conduct experiments, or play his violin. Everything he used to quiet his mind was not here, so he prayed to the universe that the pills and the scotch would do the trick. 

"When Greg invited you along to parties, or events with he and Mycroft, why didn't you ever come?"

Sherlock downed the rest of the scotch and tried to turn and put it on a coaster near his left side, but he winced and cried out with the turn. John grabbed the tumbler and felt his side, "Don't turn your side like that! That's right where the asshole kicked you."

"Yes, I figured that out," Sherlock smiled, taking a few moments to breathe in and out deeply. He closed his eyes, opening them when John touched his hand after returning from the kitchen. 

"Hey, I don't want to intrude, but why didn't you ever come? Mycroft mentioned his little brother a few times. I even think he was trying to set us up on a double date but you never showed up."

Sherlock looked at John, biting his lip. John had scooted a bit closer to him, one knee popped up on the couch, his other leg dangling to the floor. His arm was on the back of the couch. 

"I'll tell you my story, Dr. Watson, if you tell me why you didn't attend the wedding of your best friend. You've been best friends for twenty years. He was heartbroken. He was willing to wait for you to get out of surgery to start the ceremony. And yet, roughly two weeks after the wedding, you _happen_ to be walking near a crime scene that he's working, a crime spree that's delayed his honeymoon twice-"

John put his hand on Sherlock's knee, his voice harsh, "Wait, are you saying I had something to do with the murders to keep him off his honeymoon?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Nothing so nefarious, Dr. Watson. As much as my brother and I do not see eye to eye, he is my brother, and Greg Lestrade-Holmes is my family now. We will discuss this."

"I bring you into my house to take care of you, and you're going to interrogate me-"

"And then you may kick me out onto the street. You can re-break my ribs, if you'd like. But we will discuss this. Tonight."

John glared at Sherlock, "You are a goddamn asshole,"

Sherlock smiled, "Most people call me a prick. Doesn't matter. Why weren't you at the wedding?"

John grabbed the tumblers and brought back the bottle of scotch.


	6. Rapid-fire Deductions

John was a little further away from Sherlock when he sat back down on the couch. He was rubbing at his mustache and his thigh; his physical tells when he was nervous.

"I'll go first, with what I think is going on," Sherlock began, sipping on his second tumblr of whiskey, "Unless this second drink is going to knock me out?"

John put his arm on the back on the couch, "Based on your weight and size, you've got about an hour before you become incredibly sleepy."

Sherlock took a breath, and began, "I follow you, and a lot of my acquaintances' friends, on social media. I go by _William Scott_. Bland enough name that most people just don't bother checking to see if they really do know me. My Facebook photo is a cut from someone in the background of one of Mycroft's photos that is also an acquaintance of Greg and Molly, she's a friend from the lab and Morgue where I do work. I follow to be able to track signs and crimes, and grab messages in less direct ways. If Greg is quiet, I know he's on a case, and I clear my schedule. I've seen a pattern with you. If Greg is posting on Twitter or Facebook, you respond four times quicker than you do to anyone else. On Thursdays, given the social convention of _throwback Thursday_ , you always post a photo that includes you and Greg. If the photos are of a group, if the group includes his ex wife or my brother, they are completely or partially cropped from the photo. I would imagine you didn't attend his wedding 8 years ago to his first spouse, Abigail, for the same reason you didn't attend the one to my brother two weeks ago. You are in love with him. It was too painful."

John took a shuddering breath. He didn't drop eye contact. He inhaled, actually looking relieved, "Greg, Greg said you were brilliant. Bloody fucking brilliant."

"Was I wrong?" Sherlock raised and eyebrow, adjusting his pillows so his ribs didn't ache so sharply as he inhaled. 

"You're right. Right on most everything. One thing happened differently. For his first wedding, to Abigail, I was his best man. I couldn't say no. He was my best friend. He, I." John looked down at his glass, spinning around the ice, "I taught him to dance. So he could waltz with her. It killed me. But it was easier. Him marrying a woman, I mean. I could say that it was because he wasn't gay or didn't like men that way. But when he started dating Mycroft, it hurt. It killed me, because when he and Abigail divorced…"

Sherlock reached his hand out and put it on John's knee. He expected John to flinch back, but he didn't. 

"You must think I'm an arse. Being in love with your brother's husband. I'm sorry. If it makes you uncomfortable. Or if you need to tell him. I can pay for a hotel and a nurse, so you can be taken care of elsewhere-"

"No," Sherlock said, squeezing John's shoulder, "I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm certainly not telling Mycroft. I just wanted to talk about it, that's all."

Sherlock put his hand back on his lap, watching. John took a breath, and began again. 

"I was so, so heartbroken after Greg's wedding. I left early. Who leaves a wedding early? I left. I had a friend, a girl, told her I wanted to fuck. Started fucking right after Greg's wedding. That was it. We were just having sex, no relationship, she traveled and her job was her whole world. I'd never been with a woman. I wanted to force myself to be straight, be normal, I was drunk a lot. So fucked up. Her birth control failed, she was pregnant. She wanted nothing to do with the baby, was looking into adoption, but I took him. She severed parental rights. He's mine."

John looked ashamed, tired. Again, he rubbed the mustache and his leg, "But you're like Hamish. You are smart enough to figure all that out."

"Not all of it," Sherlock smiled, "Thank you for telling me. I just…..I care for my brother very much. Even though he's a big pain in the arse."

John wiped at his eyes, "I love Greg, he and Mycroft are really good for each other. I wouldn't ruin it. I love him too much for that," John looked at the floor, "Your turn. I've bared my soul to you, even though you knew it all. Tell me something about you. Explain what Mycroft told me."

Sherlock pushed the pillows down to his lower back, using it as an excuse to move closer, "I've never been good with people, Mycroft's been better. I was so much younger than him, so I wasn't a younger brother, but more of an only child. I was smart, tall, skinny, terrible at sports, my hair always looked like a rats' nest. I've just never been good looking-"

"I can't believe that-" John interjected. Clearing his throat, "I mean, you're handsome. And I appreciate your kindness towards my son. Usually, I'm having to shield him from people or make excuses on how they treat him. I'm really-- sorry. Go ahead."

Sherlock felt his ears redden. He continued, "I guess, thank you, I've never felt good looking. Or had friends. I would see or deduce things. I would tell someone something, and they'd hate me, make fun of me. I just figured it was easier to be alone with my books and experiments."

John moved closer, "Are you sure you aren't Hamish's father?" 

Sherlock laughed, then wrapped his arms around himself. The pain was sharp. 

"Here," John put his knuckles in a rolling motion into his back, "Your muscles are cramping due to lack of use. It will hurt like hell, but we will need to take you on a short walk tomorrow."

John was very close to Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock couldn't turn to look into his eyes anymore, but he kept talking, "I'm sure I'm not his father. Never slept with a woman."

They were both quiet, Sherlock only able to breath and gasp as John worked on his back, John exhaling as he pushed with his knuckles. 

"Is that any better?"

"Some."

John rolled his fingers over Sherlock's aching muscles for a few minutes before speaking. 

"I was terrified I was going to be witness to your murder that night," John was now rubbing gentler circles on his back, and he scooted further away so they could look at each other, "That man was insane with how fast he was crawling up you. I hadn't seen that type of surgical blade before."

"I'm glad you were there," Sherlock smiled. 

John gave a slight smile back, tilting his head, "Sorry, I keep interrupting you, Sherlock, go ahead."

Sherlock swallowed. He'd been around more people since the hospital than he'd been in months. Kind people. It would be even harder to go back to being alone, now that he'd gotten used to being cared for. 

"Well…ok. So I wasn't handsome, not typically so, I wasn't fit, blonde haired, blue eyed, rugby player type," Sherlock gave a flit of his chin to gesture at John. John laughed. 

"Are you referring to me? I might have _been_ that type. No more. Now I'm more the invalided, general practice, middle age, pudgy doctor type."

Sherlock wanted to touch his knee, his hand, but didn't dare, "I'm very observant, remember?" 

John laughed, "And you can't say you're _not_ handsome if you can see the diamond in the rough. You're just the tall, dark, mysterious type, yea?"

"If you say so-"

"I do say so. I'm a doctor. Doctors are always right. About everything. Just ask my son. He'll tell you."

"Ok, so I _thought_ I wasn’t good looking, and I had no friends. One boy paid attention to me, I can't even remember his name, but his whole goal was selling drugs. This was in college. I would get high on cocaine, on speed, and forget. I'd play my violin at all bizarre hours of the day and night, and I eventually was kicked out. I was.."

Sherlock hadn't told anyone the whole story, but he felt like he owed it to John. He clenched at one of the pillows, looking at the floor as he talked, "I hated myself. I hated that I was different, that I didn't fit in anywhere. I was really smart, so professors or teachers would talk to me, but regular adults or kids wouldn't. But high, being a junkie, I fit in. It seems backwards. If I rambled on and on about different kinds of tobacco ash showing the murderer at a crime scene, normal dinner conversation would halt. Junkies would listen to me because they just thought I was high. We had something in common and I had friends. It made me seem tolerable to other people. Eventually, I got clean, but some of my closest friends are former addicts. They work with me on my cases. We joke that they're my 'homeless network' because no one pays attention if a homeless person is sitting around staring at a house. The best spies. Normal people couldn't stand me. I fit in with freaks and misfits."

Sherlock felt John's hands wrap around his upper back and engulf him in a hug. Into his shoulder, he heard John say, "Thank you," with a sniffle. When John pulled away, he reached for a tissue, "I worry about Hamish constantly. That he's lonely. I don't want him to feel alone like that."

Sherlock scooted closer, ignoring his ribs, tossing pillows aside, "Hamish is a great little boy. With a great dad. Mycroft has talked about you both. He doesn't say things he doesn't mean, and he thinks Hamish is delightful. Greg has children, does he play with them?"

John rubbed his eyes again, shaking his head 'no', "Jesus, I don't talk about this with anyone, I'm a mess. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders. His ribs were screaming at him. He prayed for the pills to kick in and that the pain wasn't showing on his face, "We're even, then. I've never talked about myself with anyone, either. Now, does he not get along with Greg's children?"

John was breathing, desperately trying to keep himself from sobbing. Sherlock could tell by the shaking shoulders and his clenched jaw, "After Abigail, I just imagined, we'd become a blended family. That we'd get together finally. But Mycroft came and ruined-" He flinched, "Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry, John, I'd feel the same way,"

"I just, I just imagined they'd have to learn to be together as sisters and brother. I hung my hat on that. I'd been with him through his shitty marriage, helped him move into a new place, we were getting so close. Then, he started talking about a man he'd met at work, and I had to pull away. Hamish, as a result, didn't get to see Greg's girls as often."

Sherlock wanted to ask more about his relationship with Greg, but he decided to leave it. It was past midnight, and the drugs were suddenly taking effect. 

"Woozy?" John asked, putting the back of his hand on Sherlock's cheek. 

"Yea, all of a sudden, yea."

John stood in front of Sherlock, bracing himself, Sherlock pulling himself up with the leverage of John's forearms. He nearly toppled into John's arms. Sherlock was just tipsy enough that his very thin filter was gone. 

"That was almost like a scene from a romance novel, you having to catch me as the swooning heroine," Sherlock smiled, grabbing John's arm tightly as they shuffled to John's room. 

"Not tonight, sweetheart, I have a headache," John winked, helping Sherlock stop off at the bathroom, then helping him to bed. Sherlock knew he could've stubbornly cared for himself on his own, but this was infinitely better. 

"I don't work for 3 days," John said, pulling the blankets up around Sherlock's shoulders, "So if you need anything, holler. Hamish is a deep sleeper and his tutor will let him nap if he needs it."

After John left, Sherlock was alone in his bed, rubbing his nose in the pillow that smelled like John. As he was drifting to sleep, Sherlock had a panicked thought that made his heart thunder in his neck.

_oh my god I think we were flirting_


	7. Intermittent Tremble

Sherlock woke to a wet pillow and crusty hair that stuck up at all angles. His last thought from the night before had been his heart to heart discussions with John, and then a quick fall into blissful sleep. 

As he raised his head, Sherlock expected to be able to swing his legs off the bed and stand up in one fluid motion. He tried to roll over, or push himself up, but his back muscles spasmed in sharp, radiating waves. He was stuck on his side, unable to move without excruciating pain. Sherlock winced, a tear rolling down his face. 

Reminiscent of the morning in the hospital, Hamish was in his room. In a chair. Reading a medical book on spinal cord injuries. 

"Are you ok, Mr. Detective? I was reading about spinal cord injuries and I don't think you have one of those. I think it's more of sympathy pains with your main ribs. Muscle pain-"

Sherlock did his best to not scream at the boy, "Can you get your father, please? I can't get out of bed. It hurts too much." Sherlock exhaled, more tears squeezing from his eyes. 

Hamish nodded. As he walked through the doorway, he shouted towards the kitchen, "Daddy, Mr. Detective needs you! He's crying!"

If Sherlock could move, he would've hidden under the covers. 

The doctor ran into the room, skidding to a stop beside the bed, "Oh, Sherlock," pushing his hair back, "I should've woken you sooner to stretch your back. I'm sorry." John, without warning, moved one arm on top of Sherlock's knees and one pressed on his breastbone, "Sherlock, this is going to hurt like hell-"

"Daddy! Don't cuss!"

John kept talking, "But if I don't stretch you and get you moving you'll be in worse shape soon." Sherlock took in a deep breath. He was shaking. John's face was only a few inches from his. 

Hamish stood at the end of the bed, newspaper and notepad in hand, making notes. Sherlock wondered if the boy was making notes on his injury, "Mr. Detective, how long does it take a dead body to decompose?"

Sherlock tried to recall any children he'd ever met that would have used the word _decompose._ It was too interesting of a phenomenon, so if it had ever happened to him, he most certainly wouldn't have deleted it from his hard drive. 

Sherlock answered as best he could with John pressing on him, "There are a multitude of factors that play into decomposition. Many forensic experts study it for years. Many contend it's an art, not a science. Some people who donate their bodies to science end up having them used on decomposition sites."

Hamish's eyes were wide. John glared at Sherlock. This was normally about the time the parents removed children from the conversation as Sherlock tended to either give children nightmares or make them cry. 

"Daddy, can Mr. Detective take me to a decomposition site? That would be so cool. I could compare days, and temperatures, and body types. I could make notes so I have information when I'm a detective I'll know what to look for-"

John shushed Hamish as he pushed down a third time on Sherlock's sternum. His back made popping noises. 

Hamish didn't shush. 

"I need to know what to look for! It's really important. In this case the police are currently working, they say Mr. Wiggins killed Joseph Brandow-"

Sherlock huffed out as John pulled on his legs. John was shaking his head, "Wait, which Mr. Wiggins?" Sherlock thought through all the Wiggins he knew. There was five in his homeless network, one that worked at the largest grocery store, two school teachers….he continued mapping in his brain the layout of their locations as Hamish talked. 

"Billy Wiggins, Mr. Detective, sir. But they're basing time of death on decomposition. But, I think he's been dead not as long, because in summer, decomposition happens quicker. I think their timeline is off, based on photos. But I didn't know about sites! That might help."

John turned Sherlock to a sitting position by hugging him, using Sherlock's legs as leverage. He felt a slight discomfort, but not the way John described. John sat on the edge of the bed, beside Sherlock, rubbing his back in gentler circles. Their sides and thighs were touching. 

"Sorry I didn't warn you," John continued rubbing his back, adjusting the rib bracing, "Generally if I just sit the person up without warning they don't tense up," John adjusted the brace again, "I'll have to look at your chest and ribs after breakfast-"

John continued to keep eye contact with Sherlock, his hand barely rubbing circles across his shoulder blades. 

"I'm hungry," Hamish said, tapping his pencil against the notebook. John turned so Hamish couldn't see him and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. John got up off the bed, took a step back, bracing himself to help Sherlock back up to a standing position. It felt awkward as he was using all of his body weight and strength to maneuver someone nearly five inches taller than himself. They fought where to place their hands and feet. Sherlock looked at him, and they were lost in a fit of giggles. 

"I'm going to help you up, Sherlock. Try not to kill me in the process. This will probably hurt, too, I'm sorry," John wrapped his arms around his waist.

_good lord how much did this man have to touch him in the span of 10 minutes_

As John helped Sherlock up with his arms linked around his waist, Hamish went on about the decomposing body, "The fingernails and hair and eyes and skin were sloughing off, which I think in our temperature indicates about a week of being dumped in the countryside. I just am not sure based on the photos that the police have the time of death right on this one-"

"Hamish!" John barked. John steadied Sherlock with his hands, one on his waist and one on his shoulder. Sherlock wondered if they might begin to waltz. "Why in the world are you continuously bringing up this morbid case? Can you wait?"

Hamish just grinned, not upset in the least by being yelled at, "Did it hurt when daddy rolled you over, Mr. Detective?"

Sherlock blushed, trying to figure out what the boy was getting at. Sherlock thought about it, remembering John's stern warning about pain. "No, it hadn't really hurt, just been a little uncomfortable."

Sherlock looked at John, John shrugged his shoulders. 

"And when he picked you up? Or poked at you? Did you notice the hurt?"

Sherlock continued to look at John, raising an eyebrow, "No…I guess not. What are you-"

"Mr. Detective, I was helping! When daddy stitches me up, he talks to me about my experiments. What compound I should mix with what, or what soil sample corresponds to a certain area. You needed to be distracted by a case, so I found one, and it didn’t hurt as much, because you were thinking of case stuff, and not about your ribs."

John broke out into a grin, Sherlock giggled again, "Your son, your son is a marvel." John smiled, his hands still on Sherlock's waist and shoulder. 

Hamish told them both, "I am going to review my case notes over breakfast, maybe we can discuss them later, Mr. Detective?" Hamish left the room, carrying his notebook and paper with him. 

Sherlock was biting his lip. He thought he might burst from a laughing fit, "John, I want to laugh, but I don't want him to think I'm laughing at him. He's so serious. He's amazing. He might be right about the case, if it's the one I'm thinking of, weather does throw off the estimated time of death quite a bit," Sherlock laughed, looking down at John, "Are you ok?" 

John's face was unreadable. His eyes were searching Sherlock's back and forth quickly, as his hand tightly grasped his waist, "Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me? I would be invalided if it weren't for you." 

"No, it's just, most everyone I've been around is not kind at all to Hamish," John lowered his voice, "Anyone I've tried to date doesn't want anything to do with us after the third or fourth date because they don't understand him. And you understand him," John smiled, then blushed realizing the context of what he'd said, "Not that we're dating, you and I, jesus, just trying to explain how rare of a person you are."

Sherlock felt his legs trembling. He shuffled his feet with the hopes John wouldn’t notice. 

"Most people are idiots, John. If you live life with that understanding, it gets easier," Sherlock grinned, his arms around John's waist, simply to steady himself. 

"Is that so?" John looked up at him. Pushing his hair out of his eyes. He was always touching his hair, every excuse he could get he was touching his hair. 

_definitely flirting_

"I'm glad I'm here. To meet you and Hamish. Despite all the pain," Sherlock felt John pull him closer, his eyes deep blue, offset by his tanned face. Sherlock put his shaking hand on John's jaw, "Thank you." 

Hamish began yelling from the kitchen, "Daddy, where's breakfast?" As Sherlock was stroking John's jaw with his thumb. Sherlock exhaled, pressing their foreheads together. John was still smiling, "Come here, you probably need to eat." He took his hand, leading him to the small kitchen. Hamish already had a bowl, mixing utensils, eggs, milk, oil, and a cookbook out. 

"What are you making, Hamish?" John asked, allowing Sherlock to lean on his arm for support as he let him down gently into a chair. John stood behind him, rubbing Sherlock's shoulders as he talked to his son, "Are you baking something?" 

"Well….I'm trying. I've got most of the recipe for pancakes, so I'm going to try it. The recipe is specific with measurements but they aren't very specific with the directions about cooking it on the griddle. I'm not sure how to do that part." 

Sherlock leaned back into John's chest. He wasn't sure how to convey he was ok with touching John, and John touching him. He was acting as his doctor, so he had every reason to touch him to asses injury. 

There was no medicinal reason for John to have his hands loosely on Sherlock's shoulders, or for him to be comfortable with Sherlock pressing his back into John's chest. Sherlock tried to rein his imagination in, but he wondered what it would feel like to have John peck a kiss on the crown of his head. To keep himself focused, he laced his fingers together and placed them in his lap. 

John leaned down just slightly, near Sherlock's ear, and asked quietly, "You ok?"

_How do I answer that question_

Hamish answered, now pouring far too much batter onto the griddle, "You're making him nervous, daddy. He has an intermittent tremble when you're near him but I don't think he minds, as he's assertive enough to tell you to leave him alone if you were really bothering-"

John jumped away from Sherlock and was at Hamish's side, mitigating the damages, "Stop! Hamish, the batter is running all over, you just use a little at a time."

As he watched the father and son make pancakes, Sherlock could see the back of John's neck and ears were red.


	8. Let Me

During breakfast, Hamish sat right next to Sherlock, giving him more advice about his father. "He doesn't like to talk about death, as he's a doctor, so he's the enemy of death." Sherlock looked up at John, raising his eyebrows. John ate another bite of pancake then gestured with his fork for Hamish to continue. "So I don't know if daddy will approve of me helping with the case but I'd like to help. I was just pulling up that case to distract you from pain while daddy was hugging you-"

"I was adjusting his ribs!"

"He was hugging you, Mr. Detective, there are 34 approved ways of adjusting someone's spine and ribs according to my book on spine care and that was _not_ one of the ways."

John let his fork fall on his plate, huffing , finally putting his face in his hands. 

"Well, I mean it wasn't. I mean, you could've adjusted his back without touching him so much."

John didn't look up, "Hamish, please…"

"Daddy, I'm just telling you what I _saw_ , and you were hugging him a lot."

John looked up, grabbed his plate, put it in the sink with a clang. Hamish bit bis lip, and looked down at the table. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, "John, do you mind if I talk to Hamish for a bit? Just us? You don't have to leave the room if you don't want to."

John turned around, nodding his head, shutting himself in his bedroom. Sherlock was sure he could still hear the two of them speaking. 

"Hamish, Hamish, look at me, please? It took me a long time to find out how people work, even though I'm incredibly smart. Did you see how your daddy put his head down?"

"Yea, he does that a lot when I'm talking."

Sherlock thought he heard John snort from his bedroom. 

"When your daddy puts his head down, bites his lip, or turns away from you, that means he's frustrated by what you're doing. You have to learn to read those signals and change your behavior based on what you're seeing from others."

"Why doesn't he just tell me?" Hamish crossed his arms. He looked like a miniature John Watson, but his eyes were green. 

"Sometimes he does. Earlier, was trying to tell you to be quiet about the case when he was working on my back, right?" 

Hamish threw up his hands, "But I was helping, you didn't hurt as much-"

"But wouldn't it have been better if you _told_ your daddy what you were going to do? So he understood?"

"But I wanted to surprise him, too. I wanted him to think I was clever."

Sherlock waited, hoping for a moment John would come and rescue him. The moment passed. He was on his own, "Your daddy knows you're very clever, and your daddy loves you very much. You live with your daddy every day, right?"

Hamish rolled his eyes, "Yes."

"Don't roll your eyes, it's rude." Sherlock said, staring at Hamish, eyebrows raised. Hamish stared back, "A simple yes or no will suffice."

"Yes."

"Ok, when you're clever, it's easy to be impatient, or rude, or hurtful, because everyone else moves so slowly, or is boring."

Hamish's eyes got wide and his jaw dropped. He nodded his head in agreement. 

"But your daddy loves you, and your grandma and grandpa love you, and people who try to be your friends, they love you exactly as you are. You don't have to be clever for them. They know you're clever. You also can't be rude to them. Or impatient. Or hurtful. You may want to, but those you love, who are around you all the time, you have to practice being patient."

"Are you just telling me to be nicer to daddy?"

"I'm telling you not to use your cleverness or deductions _against_ your daddy. Unless you tell him or let him in on what you're doing. Being smart and clever is wonderful for a job but terrible if you want to keep friends and family."

Hamish looked at Sherlock, wrinkling his eyebrows, "Why are you good? Why aren't you naughty? Don't you get angry or bored? Or impatient?"

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, raising his voice a bit, "I am especially rude and impatient to the local police force at times. Exceptionally. When they deserve it. I'm so hard to get along with, one of my only friends is Billy, my skull."

Sherlock was surprised Hamish didn't comment on the skull, but kept chattering,"How do I know…if I'm being rude or mean to daddy?"

"When my brother and I were growing up, he and I would fight and be as clever as we could to each other. We would pick each other apart for fun. My mother came to me one day, crying, wishing we would get along. We have a signal we whisper to each other, 'remember mother' is what we tell each other when we're being too mean or harsh. Your daddy can help you with a phrase."

"You're very nice, Mr. Detective. I'm sorry I rolled my eyes at you."

"Apology accepted."

"Are you still mean to your brother, Mr. Detective?"

"Not as much. I would make deductions about his boyfriend, Greg Lestrade, and it made my brother upset. He had to remind me quite often about our mother to get me to stop."

Hamish looked thoughtful, "My daddy gets upset, and sometimes I think I know why, but I'm not sure. He gets upset when I ask."

Sherlock thought how to phrase what he wanted to say, "Sometimes daddies can't tell you everything. He will tell you if he can, and only if it's important for you to know. Now, you need to go ask your daddy, if we can discuss your case? Or if it's too grown up?"

Hamish grinned and ran out of the kitchen. He turned back and ran back to Sherlock. "Mr. Detective, daddy wants to talk to _you_ now!"

Sherlock worried he was in trouble, but Hamish was grinning. Hamish helped him off the chair into John's bedroom. Sherlock stayed in the doorway, but John gestured him inside and shut the door behind him. 

"How do you do that? I've never figured my own son out, and you're able to."

"It's just personalities."

"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad he has you to talk to," John drew him in to a deep hug, tucking his head under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock did his best to wrap his arms around John, despite the aching ribs. 

"I wish, I wish you'd come to one of those dates Greg was trying to set us up on years ago," John said into his chest. 

"No. You wouldn't have liked me then," Sherlock stroked John's back thoughtfully, "We need to stop hugging. It's not one of the 35 approved methods of back or rib adjustment."

John laughed, "And he'll be able to tell we hugged by the way your shirt is arranged."

"I haven't fully taken the idea off the table that your son isn't psychic."

\-----

After spending most of the day working on the case, the three of them decided to leave everything on the kitchen table for the next day. Sherlock laid on his back, lazily rolling circles on his chest and stomach, remembering how it felt to hold John in a tight hug. 

After one am, when sleep was still evasive, he debated exactly what shade of blue he could call John's eyes. In the middle of his musings, he heard a faint knocking on his door. Hamish peeked in. His cheeks were wet. 

"Mr. Detective, daddy had a nightmare, and I think I know what it was about, but you told me I shouldn't deduce him, but he went out on the landing to smoke, and I hate it when he smokes. His kisses taste yucky when he smokes…."

Sherlock was surprisingly able to roll over quickly, "Here, let me talk to him. Wait here." Hamish helped pull him up to a sitting position, and Sherlock went to the back patio, which in reality was the fire escape. The minute he opened the back door John tried to quickly snuff out his cigarette. 

"That didn't work with your son," Sherlock laughed, "He woke me up to tell me you were out here smoking."

John smiled, "I don't think that this is the most comfortable place for you to sit, Sherlock."

"No, but your son is worried about you. And I am, too. He thinks he knows what's wrong with you, but he doesn't want to deduce it or guess it for fear of hurting your feelings."

Sherlock stood next to John, not daring to sit with his ribs. He rocked to the side as John leaned against his leg. 

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down, seeing only the crown of John's silvery, blonde head, "I should be thanking you. I would be home, alone, miserable."

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes clear in the residual light from the kitchen. His eyes were the color of the night sky, just before dawn, most definitely, "Would you be amenable, if you fell ok, with going on a date with me tomorrow? Hamish will be at his grandparents for the weekend. I decided to burn some vacation I've had saved up."

Sherlock wanted to kiss John very badly, but he hated the taste of cigarettes. He squeezed his shoulder instead. Grinning, he replied, "Yes. I'd be amenable. But Hamish and I agree. We don't want to kiss you when you taste like cigarettes."

Sherlock winked, and went through the kitchen door, letting it close gently behind him.


	9. In Pajamas

Sherlock woke early, feeling quite a bit better. He wandered into the kitchen and quietly made himself breakfast. When he threw away his napkin, he noticed two packs of cigarettes smashed into the trash bin. 

Sherlock's ribs felt better, just a little creaky, so he spread out on the couch and turned on the television. There was a special news story on how there had been another decomposing body found in the park, this time with substantial markings that the 'police weren't releasing at this time.'

The press conference was being held in NSY, the lead table full of detectives. Leading the charge was Detective Sally Donovan, filling in for the head of the department, DI Greg Lestrade. 

Sherlock turned his head when he heard creaking floorboards. Hamish was up, still in pajamas, carrying a blanket and holding onto a stuffed elephant that looked very well loved. Sherlock had forgotten, with the way he spoke, and carried himself, that he was still a little boy. 

"Can I sit by you?" Hamish asked, his stuffed animal hugged against his cheek. 

Sherlock nodded, pushing himself further up on the couch, putting his feet up on one side only. 

"Are your feet cold, Mr. Detective? You can share my blankie," before allowing Sherlock to answer, Hamish tucked the corner of his blanket on top of and under Sherlock's bare feet. Sherlock felt his eyes well up, so he turned his head to the TV. 

"You have your brace off? Are your ribs better?"

"Yes, much better," Sherlock smiled back at Hamish, who was now engrossed in the news.

Hamish spoke so quietly Sherlock had to listen closely, "Sometimes when Uncle Lestrade is on TV daddy watches it, and sometimes he turns it off. He was upset about him last night, but I didn't try to deduce it."

Sherlock smiled at Hamish, "It's one of those things you shouldn't deduce. He'll tell you if he thinks you should know, ok?"

"I'm just sad he's sad," Hamish said, pulling his blanket and elephant closer, "I'm glad you're here. He came inside and slept on the floor and didn't cry the rest of the night. I told him you're very nice and he agreed, saying that you're very nice, too."

Sherlock had never been called nice. In all his years of working with his personality he'd become less abrasive, but never nice. He imagined Hamish and John, sitting up late, saying kind things about him. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to discreetly wipe his face. 

"Oh no!" Hamish started crying, "Did I deduce you? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, you didn't, come here," not thinking about if it were welcome or not, Sherlock picked Hamish up and hugged him, scooping him, the blanket, and his animal into his lap. 

"You're not mad at me?" Hamish had tears running down his face. Sherlock used his ragged shirt to dry them off.

"No, why would I be mad? I'm crying because I'm happy," Sherlock smiled, "I've worked very hard at trying to be nice, and I'm happy you and your daddy think I'm nice."

"I think it's more than daddy just thinking you're nice-"

Sherlock grabbed the stuffed elephant and bopped him on the nose, "No deducing. If he wants to tell me something private he will tell me himself."

Hamish giggled. 

"Can we watch cartoons, Mr. Detective?"

Sherlock was surprised, "You don't want to watch the news stories about our case?"

Hamish yawned, "No, I figured it out," Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

"The time of death is throwing everyone off because the killer murdered them weeks or months ago, froze them, and dumps them after very slow defrost."

Sherlock texted Sally to have _Molly rerun forensics for signs of tissue freezing_

A few moments later, John shuffled into the living room, bleary eyed but smiling when he saw Sherlock and Hamish cuddled on the couch together. 

"What are you two up to?" John sat down and gave Sherlock and Hamish a hug. Sherlock's arm was over the back of the couch. John put his arm next to his. 

"Oh, not too much. It's just your son, at 8:15 this morning, not even out of his pajamas, just solved a case that had been previously unsolved for months. The NSY will no doubt credit an anonymous tip later on for helping them discover the killer was disguising the time of death by freezing the bodies before dumping them."

John looked proud, but concerned. 

"Daddy," Hamish giggled, "I'm an abominable type! In pajamas!"


	10. Shaving Foam

Sherlock was in the kitchen, cleaning the counters and washing the dishes. He had nearly no pain in his ribs as long as he didn't bend over or move too quickly. As he grabbed some coffee mugs from the living room, he could hear bits of conversation from the bathroom. He paused when he heard Hamish talking about him. 

"Daddy, I know that I'm not supposed to deduce, but Mr. Detective will think your mustache is itchy…." 

"Hamish!" Josh tried to shush him, but they were both giggling. 

"I know, but it's _important_ , daddy, his skin turns really red when it's itchy, or when he scratches it!"

"Why do you think it's important, Hamish? Why do you think he would _care_ that my mustache is itchy?" Sherlock heard the teasing in John's voice, and imagined Hamish's giggles were from John tickling him. 

"Daddy, haven't you ever _kissed?_ Like in the movies? If you kiss him, he'll only feel bristly kisses! He won't like it!"

"Ssshh, Hamish, he'll hear you…."

Sherlock went back to the kitchen before he heard any more, turning on the water in the kitchen sink. As he filled it to the top with warm, soapy water and dirty dishes, he whistled to himself to drown out their conversation. As Sherlock was soaping up a plate, he considered how his ribs were nearly free of aches. Waking up alone in his flat was so much different than waking up here with John and Hamish. 

Even though they slept in different bedrooms, there was something comforting in hearing others rustling around in the house. Sherlock wasn't looking forward to his first morning when Hamish wasn't his alarm clock. His few days here were happy, and he was thankful of the situation that left him with John to take care of him. 

He felt a bit panicked, working in the kitchen that was not his own but felt comfortable, wondering if their date was just a simple distraction. He'd felt a pull towards John, wanting to touch him and be touched as much as possible, but he was unsure if John had the same feelings. Or maybe doctors, or John, were simply more tactile. 

Sherlock was daydreaming about John's hands, letting a slippery plate fall to the ground and hit his toe. He cried out, turning the cuss word into a more general cry. 

As he sat down gently to nurse his injured toe, Hamish and John came running out of the bathroom. Both father and son were stripped to the waist wearing only towels, their faces were covered in shaving foam. 

"Mr. Detective are you alright?"

Sherlock looked up at the two of them and burst out laughing, "What do you two think you're doing?"

Hamish grinned, "Daddy's teaching me how to shave. Daddy is shaving because-" John gave Hamish a look, "You'll find out!!" Hamish yelled, running back into the bathroom and nearly losing his towel in the process. 

\-----

Sherlock had given Hamish and John space as they'd gotten ready for Hamish's weekend away from home. He was dusting the living-room out of nerves when Mycroft texted him. 

_We're back brother dear. Would you like to get together- MH_

_I've got a date._

_A date? With the morgue? MH_

_Very funny, Mycroft. No. A date. With a man._

_May I ask his name? So I may run the proper background checks and such? MH_

_Dr. John Watson_

Used to texting his brother back and forth instantly, Sherlock grew nervous as the lack of a response stretched into minutes. Sherlock knew what his reservations were, they were the same as his own, but he couldn't help the risk. 

He knew the basic content of the text before it arrived. 

_Are you sure that's wise? Considering his past with Greg? I'm just concerned he may be using you. Not purposely, of course. MH_

_piss off Mycroft - we're both adults._

_clearly_

\----

John's lovely parents were treating Sherlock as John's very first date, smiling and hugging them both and advising them continuously to have a very good weekend. Hamish had hugged Sherlock tightly around the neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek, whispering in his ear, "Daddy really likes you." That tender and honest reassurance did wonders to dispel Sherlock's nerves. 

John, looked quite different, and much younger, without the mustache. After they were alone, he crossed the room the stand in front of Sherlock. They'd been dancing around each other, unconsciously avoiding each other, as they'd separately gotten ready.

John rubbed the back of his own neck, another physical tic when he was nervous "It kind of feels like we are already married, escaping away, doesn't it? Leaving from the same house?"

Sherlock couldn't wait to talk about what had been bothering him. He wrung his hands, blurting out, "Can we talk about something?"

John turned white, "Did I jump ahead too many steps? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything. I didn't mean--"

Sherlock's brain finally caught up with the miscommunication, "John. Hamish is definitely your son. You both assume right away you did something to offend. No, you're…you. I like, I do like being here. I like you. Especially without the mustache," John laughed, tapping Sherlock on the forehead,"And you _Mr. Detective_ are like my son, in the fact you blurt out random thoughts without thinking."

"Let's sit and talk, it's ok, promise," Sherlock took his hand, leading him to the couch. 

When they were sitting, knees touching, Sherlock pulled out his cell phone so John could see it. As John read the messages from Mycroft, Sherlock's jittering leg was so distracting that John moved closer to still him.

"Are you afraid, Sherlock?" John met Sherlock's eyes and didn't move away from him.

"John," Sherlock placed his hand over John's, "I am terrified. It seems unwise, to embark on this, with your feelings for Greg," Sherlock noticed the pain that crossed John's face, "But, considering I very nearly died a few days ago, my tolerance for terror has raised quite a bit. You are worth it to me, Hamish is worth it to me, to work through it, if you're willing."

John turned Sherlock's hand so he could lace their hands together and rub his fingertips over his knuckles. Sherlock ran his thumb over John's upper lip.

"I can't believe you shaved it," He whispered, moving closer. 

"Hamish was conducting an experiment. An experiment that will require us to repeat frequently."

"What was that?" Sherlock hummed. 

John kissed him, Sherlock nibbling for a moment on John's upper lip.


	11. Insane, Patient

"You must think me absolutely stark raving mad," John whispered as he pulled away from their kiss, "I've done it all backwards. I have you move in with us, I kiss you, then I'm going to take you out on a date, all out of order, all very quickly."

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, resting his forearms on John's shoulders. Sherlock began running his fingers through John's hair as he spoke, "It will naturally slow down, with my work, your work, when I'm living at my apartment again."

"I don't want you to go. Hamish doesn't want you to go," John puffed out his lower lip in a fake pout, "But I know you have to. And we'll actually _date_."

Sherlock laughed, "It did feel like we were married already. Having to get ready, in the same place."

"I thought you were avoiding me, that we'd had a domestic," John said as he squeezed Sherlock's knee, "You kept cleaning."

"I clean when I'm nervous. I didn't have my violin."

"You play violin, too?" John tilted his head to study Sherlock's face, "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I play violin. I compose my own songs, especially when I'm on a difficult case."

John pulled him in for another kiss, "Why don't you have a boyfriend? Why aren't you married? You're brilliant, gorgeous….." he trailed off pressing kisses against Sherlock's jaw. 

"John, I am not always kind, or charming. When I'm running a case for days in a row I'm quite unmanageable. My only friend is a skull named Billy; you may hear me talk to him by mistake. I dare say the reason I'm so agreeable is the rest and the company I've been keeping," As John was trailing kisses down Sherlock's neck, to his collar, Sherlock pulled back, "Slow, remember, Captain Watson?" John straightened up, moving back on the couch just slightly. Sherlock wondered if his lips were as pink as John's were. 

"We should decide where we're going on our date," John asked, hands on his own knees, "We've been too busy today to talk about it."

"There is a great Italian restaurant by my apartment. I could take my bag with me, and you could drop me off at my apartment tonight."

John put his hands on Sherlock's, "Don't talk about leaving," John ran his hands up and down his ribs.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling him closer into his arms. He continued to kiss the smooth surface of John's lip, his cheeks, "I know. But we'll move far too quickly if I stay here. If we stay here. _Patience_ is not my strong suit, John, but you'll need to be patient with me."

Sherlock didn't elaborate, but kept his face close to John's. John's reply was simply, "Ok, let's go," as he pulled him up off the couch.

\------

John suggested they take the tube, as it was only three stops up, but Sherlock blanched and advised he'd pay for their cab to the restaurant. John didn't pry, and they sat next to each other in the cab, their pinkies and ring fingers touching. 

"Let me show you my flat, before we go to dinner," Sherlock said, linking his pinkie around John's, "I can drop off my bag and we can walk from there."

The flat, in reality, was townhouse. 221B, Baker Street was a four bedroom with a large bay window overlooking a pebble-stone street. A large bedroom with a king sized bed, a sitting room, large kitchen, office and research study, and two rooms that housed various materials for his experiments and costumes for his work. John tried not to show it but he was gasping as he went through each room. It was updated, modern, but sparsely furnished. 

"It was a gift, from a grateful widower. I proved his wife's death was accidental, and not a murder as the police were first led to believe. It's just been me, so it seems wasteful, and I keep meaning to sell it….."

"It's lovely," John said, "Hamish would have fun in your office with your chemistry set."

Sherlock smiled, "He's welcome anytime."

John teased him as they bounded down the stairs, "Well, he can't come unsupervised, I would have to come with him, if that's ok."

"Of course," Sherlock answered. 

"You would have all this extra time on your hands," He grinned, grabbing Sherlock's hand as they walked down the street, "With him solving all your crimes for you, I would need to keep you company, while he's busy working."

"Absolutely," Sherlock smiled, squeezing his hand, "Your son is a genius. They've narrowed down the killer in that case because they were able to pin down murder date and time since they looked into tissue freezing."

"I can't believe it," they walked for another block or so, then John stopped him, turning to face him, "Thank you, for how you treat Hamish."

"Why should I treat him any differently?" Sherlock asked, "He's a remarkable boy, with a remarkable father. I don't know many doctors that chase criminals and shoot them in alleys."

"Sssshhh," John pulled on his arm, "Don't say that too loudly, you make me sound like a psychopath."

Sherlock laughed as he opened the restaurant door for John, "I've met many psychopaths, and you are not one."

They were sat at the table nearest the window, and provided a candle because it was 'more romantic,' which made John giggle and Sherlock shush him. John then asked if they would be ordering one bowl of spaghetti and meatballs without any silverware, to which Sherlock gave him a blank stare. John then had to explain the scene of "Lady and the Tramp," but gave up when Sherlock argued, "But dogs can't talk! That is a ridiculous idea for a movie."

As they ate, the two of them talked about insane pranks played on their siblings, family vacations, preferences in movies. John was amazed at all the movies Sherlock _hadn't_ seen, while Sherlock was saddened that almost all of John's international travel was for military assignments. John knew Sherlock loved his parents and brother, but he spoke of his insanely protective brother the most. Sherlock was happy for John that the rockiest part of his childhood was being caught in the backyard kissing his high school rugby player boyfriend, Michael. This had ended John's years of fear about coming out to his family, as they'd always known, but were waiting for John to say something first. 

After plates had been cleared, and the check paid (by Sherlock), they walked back to Sherlock's flat. Sherlock knew the first night alone would be difficult. Before kissing him goodnight at the front door, John made sure he had his mobile and work numbers, "in case of emergency." 

"I'll miss you," John said, pulling him close and tucking his head on his chest, "Don't get into any trouble."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pecking a kiss on his head. John looked up and raised one eyebrow, "Ok, I'm short, you don't have to rub it in by kissing the top of my head!" 

They stood there for a few moments, just holding one another. John broke the silence, "This is going to hurt to matter how much I put this off. Goodnight!" He pecked Sherlock on the lips, then walked off quickly towards the tube station. 

Sherlock waited until he was out of sight until he went inside his doorway. His legs were shaking and he was short of breath. He regretted not staying with John, but he couldn't move too quickly. He didn't do well sleeping in a bed with someone else, not without knowing them very well, and not without working out what to expect. Most partners were not that patient, that's why he hadn't bothered for years. 

Sherlock took out his phone and texted John _Miss you already. Xoxo -SH_

By the time he'd brushed his teeth, showered, arranged his pillows, and climbed into bed, he'd gotten a message back 

_This place is too quiet with you and Hamish gone._

_Maybe an afternoon date tomorrow? -SH_

_YES. I just wish you could've stayed._

_I know. Goodnight, John._

_Goodnight, Sherlock_

Sherlock stared at the last text message until he fell asleep.


	12. Fresh Soil

The second date John and Sherlock had planned was cancelled. Case #545 happened instead. 

In the six days since John and Sherlock's first official date, Sherlock had run himself ragged. What the press called "a satanic ritual" had taken place near the Thames river and a body hanging by its feet was slung over a tree on Guildhall school grounds. The students had been terrified and the school closed. There was graffiti at the satanic ritual locale that matched a brand that was burnt into the corpse's flesh. It was at least an 8, and involved interviews, interrogations, and running back and forth across London. Sherlock was back into his old habits, the familiar adrenaline rush. He was consulting alone. 

He'd received a few texts and a call from John in the midst of the case. He'd only texted back that he was on a case and he'd talk when he was done. The one call he could tell Hamish had been terribly upset by Sherlock's absence. John had been trying to cover it up by keeping the phone away from him and muting the sound with his hand. Sherlock asked John to text only after that call, in case he was at a crime scene. 

He'd cracked the case on 4 am on Friday, texting John immediately after. 

_John, I finished the case. Sorry I haven't been very responsive. I hope you and Hamish are well. - Sherlock._

Sherlock puttered around the kitchen for a while, making tea. His phone beeped as the kettle boiled. 

_hi mr. Detective_

He almost dialed John's number, stopping when he remembered the hour. 

_Hamish? Is your daddy there?_

_he's sleeping. Did you solve it?_

_yes. When your daddy wakes up tell him to please call me?_

_yes mr. Detective_

He wondered why Hamish had John's phone. The conclusions he came to were ones he packed away to deal with at another time. For now, he needed to unwind his trail of thoughts regarding the case, as Greg would no doubt need additional information for his write up. He placed the information into his mental file cabinets, ordering them, remembering, placing them to be retrieved again. 

Sherlock was mapping the city's layout when at at 6:32 his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, rang the doorbell. She lived in south London, and would only call on Sherlock occasionally to check on the flat. Was everything satisfactory? We're the windows in good repair? Did the stove work?

Something was different. Something was wrong. She'd arrived too early, on the wrong day of the week. 

He opened the door. She looked the same as last month, with some extra makeup, her clothing a little nicer. She explained it away, "A day on the town," she smiled, "I thought I'd stop in."

Sherlock noticed it when she switched hands and put her purse down. The pulling on the shirt sleeves. Adjusting. Hiding. Extra layers. 

Sherlock had hidden in the flower garden, behind the apple tree orchard, he'd had no shirt sleeves long enough to cover up. So he waited until nightfall, when his brother found him, convincing him to tell Mummy and Daddy. 

Now, here, in his sitting room, Mrs. Hudson was covering up. Terrified of being discovered, she wasted time by wandering through Sherlock's living room. Her skirt flowed out as she turned, running her hands over the peeling wallpaper. The hem curled up, and he saw the yellow and purple patterns on her calves and ankles. He could deduce by her posture the blows against her spine. She might have internal bleeding, even though she was standing upright. She was prattling on about the rooms, the space, but Sherlock heard only the roaring of blood in his ears and the smell of fresh soil and the grip of calloused hands on his thighs. 

He called Mycroft, and made Mrs. Hudson sit down and drink honeyed tea. 

\--------

14 hours from start to finish, and already running on 6 days little sleep as it was, Sherlock was doing his best to bite his tongue. Mycroft had come over with Greg, naturally, to help with Mrs. Hudson. She declined to press charges, but agreed to stay with Sherlock. Just until she got her feet under her. The hospital visit was quick. No broken bones. Bruising only.

In Sherlock's flat, she continued to wander and circle the living room, touching every surface, fingering all of Sherlock's possessions. His eyes followed her. 

"In shock," Greg explained. Sherlock wanted to snap back . He didn't _know_ , he had no idea. He hadn't been there. He didn't know what was going through her mind. She was mapping out the best escape route, and picking the quickest and most deadly hand held weapon. Without realizing it. While her body wandered, dispelling nervous energy. She was in fight or flight continuously, without making an effort to be. 

They bought a day bed and ordered a proper bedroom set to be delivered in a week. She protested, "This isn't proper, I'm just your landlady." Mycroft sent Greg and Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock knew he was telling Mrs. Hudson _THE STORY_. Sherlock didn't mind as Mrs. Hudson had a story of her own now. 

He was a gambler, an attempted murder, an abuser. Mrs. Hudson had lots of friends and rental properties, so she could easily disappear. Sherlock would ensure his destruction, but not tonight. Tonight was for calming the raw nerves. Later, after the pain wore off and the memories came back in order, she would be angry. When the anger needed to be dealt with, that's when Sherlock would destroy him. Now, it was Valium and sleep. Tomorrow, a bath and food. In two to three days, forward. 

When he had a moment to breathe, he looked at his phone. Three missed calls. Two texts. All before noon. 

_sorry about Hamish and my phone. He had it ready in case you needed help solving anything else. I told him it's daddy's phone and that was a bit not good._

_hope you're ok. I have a twelver at noon. Talk to you soon? John_

"You ok there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped, forgetting that Mycroft had sent Greg into the kitchen with him, to wait for Mycroft to explain, how Sherlock would help, how Sherlock would be specialized to help her and understand what she went through. 

Sherlock looked at Greg, reading him. He'd noticed Greg had asked him a couple times during the day how he was doing. Not outside his normal scope of checking on him, as Sherlock's friend for five years and now Mycroft's husband, but it could indicate he knew about John and Sherlock. 

"I'm fine, Greg. You and Mycroft should get home."

"You ok, with her, and this…bringing anything up?" So, that then. _THE STORY_. Greg knew it, too. Sherlock wondered if John knew it, if he'd already heard it through everyone else. 

He didn't answer Greg, but continued to look at his phone, determining how to answer John. He was at work until midnight, but he wanted to hear his voice. He didn't want to be rude, but he really wanted to be alone. He loved his brother and brother in law but there was only so much he could take. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft was in front of him now, shaking his shoulder, "I'll come by in the morning, ok?" His eyes were gray green, different than Sherlock's blue gray. He always sounded like a big brother. He nodded, convincing them again that he was fine, that he could handle it. That they were welcome to _come back tomorrow._

Sherlock wouldn't sleep. He would rest, and maybe quietly pluck at his violin. 

The days with John and Hamish seemed a dream. He hadn't heard John's voice in days. If he didn't have the text messages he would've thought he'd dreamt the chase, the ribs, the kisses. 

He knew John was at work, but he decided to call anyway. To hear his voicemail, if nothing else. 

John answered. 

"Hello? Sherlock-" the static was cutting in and out - "are you ok? Greg said your landlady-" he lost bits of sentences trying to answer "Mycroft told Greg about. You ok?"

Hearing John say Greg's name, twice in the span of 30 seconds, and the snippets of context indicated John had just been on the phone with him. Sherlock hung up, John unable to hear him anyway. 

When John called back, Sherlock let it go to voicemail.


	13. Moth Flame

John texted a few minutes after he'd left the voicemail.

_Sorry I couldn't hear you. Hospital has terrible reception. Call you when I'm done?_

Sherlock debated for hours whether or not to listen to John's voicemail. He did finally listen to it, about 11:30pm, but it was staticky and garbled and mentioned _Greg_. Again. 

Sherlock listened in the hallway. Mrs. Hudson was sleeping quietly, Sherlock pulled a chair to the front window. He cradled his violin, plucking it absentmindedly, looking out over the traffic that rumbled by at all hours. He never second guessed himself, always knowing what to say and when to say it for maximum effect, turning a certain way and knowing that was the dogged path he would follow until the job was completed. 

John was not a case. He was more difficult. He considered possible discussions with Greg about John, none of them he could see ending well. Did Greg know, and let him suffer in silence? Or was Greg truly ignorant of John's love and affection?

If Greg had loved John back, in some way? 

Sherlock could imagine a place, easily, where Greg and John would be a far better match than Mycroft and Greg or John and Sherlock. The logical part of his mind understood that two single men coming together, who already had children, would best understand one another. If Greg didn't know before, would he act upon it now, if he knew? Would that leave both his brother and himself heartbroken?

_Sounds like a very badly written Jane Austen novel._

"What is, dear?" 

Sherlock stood up and turn around quickly, earning a wince and a jump back from Mrs. Hudson. "Sorry, I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson. I didn't realize you were standing there, or that I'd spoken out loud."

The sunlight streaming in the window indicated it was later in the morning. He had fleeting thoughts last night of calling John, or texting him, but it never happened. He was preoccupied, debating, obsessed nearly with the question of Greg and John. His room where he laid out logical questions of what to do, and what to say, and the foregone reactions was not neatly mapped out. It was still a map of pushpins and string. He brushed it aside for now. 

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. He was still away from himself, "Are you alright?" He was utterly amazed that she would think to ask him such a question with the night she'd had. 

"I just, I just don't know," Sherlock went into the kitchen to start the kettle, "Let me make you some tea,"

"Mr. Holmes - "

"Sherlock, please."

"Sherlock. My mind is full of memories I'd like to forget. Tell me, please. What is like a Jane Austen novel?"

They sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea. Sherlock recounted his days with John and Hamish, and the case #544, of the murderer with the long medical knife that almost killed Sherlock but led him to meet John Watson instead. He explained what he knew of Greg and John, but how Greg was now married to Mycroft. He slipped a bit, revealing how his heart hurt when considering if everything would fall apart if Greg knew about John's affections. 

"Love, Sherlock," She stopped on the last syllable of his name, taking his hands in hers, "Is a choice, is a decision. You can be attracted to someone, like a moth to a flame, but to love, that is a decision. An action verb. Greg came with Mycroft last night because he loves Mycroft, and wanted to help him. Mycroft wanted to help his brother. They can, and do, say they love you with words. But they act it out. John acted out love by caring for you. Hamish acted out love by opening up to you. And you may not be able to call it love yet. John may have said things, that he's attracted to Greg, but what do the words matter? What do the actions say?"

Mrs. Hudson, tired and battle warn, wearing one of Sherlock's old, terrycloth robes, had said what he needed to get out of his own mind. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had only explained pleasantries and short sentences, but she understood him. She knew why he would assume the worst case scenario first.

"Does your John know what happened to you?"

_My John_

"I'm not sure. There were pieces of messages and phone calls last night, but he kept talking about Greg-"

"And that upset you," She squeezed his hands, "Maybe Greg, as your brother-in-law, cares about you? And he wants you to be cared for? And he knows that it might be….well, hurtful to see someone who has gone through what you have? You took me in, Sherlock. You are lovely. Do not be surprised when other people treat you as if you deserve every kindness."

Sherlock moved quietly and deliberately so as not to scare Mrs. Hudson. She was tougher than she initially appeared, but she was slight of frame and shorter. He stooped in front of her, his hands on either shoulder, gently, "Mrs. Hudson, as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."

"Actions, Sherlock."

As they stood together in the kitchen, they heard a doorbell. Tentative, then a knock. Giggling outside the door. 

Sherlock looked at Mrs. Hudson. He was wearing ratty pajamas, she still in his terrycloth robe. 

"It's John," He said, "With Hamish!"

Mrs. Hudson beamed, "Well, get ready. I will stall them. Old lady in a robe never scandalized anyone."

Sherlock dressed as quickly as he could, wetting his hair, putting on a shirt with his jacket and dress pants. His heart was pounding, and he could hear Mrs. Hudson talking to John and Hamish as their voices came up the stairs. He exited the bathroom, nearly colliding with John. Hamish ran up to him, tacking him in a hug around his legs. 

"I'm sorry, to barge in when you have company, but I was worried," John looked as if he hadn't slept since his shift ended the night before, " I just wanted to see you were ok."

Hamish looked up at Sherlock, "Mr. Detective, daddy kept talking to you even though you weren't there. And he's been sad. And worried. But you're here taking care of…"

Hamish gestured towards Mrs. Hudson, and she introduced herself. Hamish pulled on John's shirt sleeve, "Daddy, he's not mad at you. He's just busy being a good friend." 

Mrs. Hudson grinned at the little boy and ruffled his hair, "Yes, he's been very kind to me. I'm just his landlady, but I need a place to stay, and he's allowing me to have one of his spare rooms. I am going to go get us some coffees and be right back. Unless, you'd rather have tea?"

Hamish pulled on her robe sleeve, "May I please have hot chocolate?" 

"Yes, yes young man."

As Mrs. Hudson got dressed, Sherlock guided them both to the couch. Sherlock wasn't sure where to start. He kept opening and closing his mouth, twisting his hands together. 

Hamish smiled brightly at them, sitting in a chair across from them, swinging his legs, "This is where the clients sit." 

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, "Yes. That is."

Hamish continued, "But there are two chairs in front of the fireplace. Mr. Detective, instead of you sitting on the couch and talking to clients, you should sit in one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace. Daddy could sit by you, and you could talk to clients. Daddy observes different things than you," when Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, Hamish jumped up and took her hand, "I'm going with Mrs.Hudson, if that's ok with you, daddy. Mr. Detective wants to talk to you but he's a little nervous with me around."

Before either man could answer, Hamish and Mrs. Hudson left down the stairs. 

Sherlock got up and sat in one of the chairs Hamish had been gesturing towards, "Your son is very bright. I tend to take his recommendations seriously."

John, who up until this point had looked quite on edge, laughed and sat in the other plush chair. He scooted it closer, so he could rest his legs on Sherlock's chair, as if his chair were his ottoman. 

"Comfy?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows, poked at John's feet. 

"Missed you," John said, in a questioning tone. He leaned forward a bit, "Are we ok? Did I do something? Or move too quickly?"

Sherlock felt his brain short circuit when he looked into John's eyes, with the blonde over blue, he was awash with emotion and at a loss for words. Cocaine or six days with little sleep never did this. A feeling of this magnitude was reserved for this man alone. 

"I'm just…apprehensive."

"Why?" John asked. John was brave. John didn’t give up fights. Sherlock's heart pounded as he considered what it would feel like to be fought for by Captain John Watson. 

"Just…" Again, the short circuit. John had moved closer, kneeling at Sherlock's feet. 

"Please tell me, Sherlock."

"This kind of stuff…is hard for me, John."

"I know," John put his hand on Sherlock's knee. He was on the floor now, looking up. He looked so young, so like Hamish, open, wide eyed, just waiting for an answer. 

"I just. Well, the days with you and Hamish were wonderful. And now I'm coming back to my life, and it just isn't…. I don't sleep. I'm not eating. My house was empty, until Mrs. Hudson arrived last night. I don't know how long this, we, will last," Sherlock inhaled, running his fingers through his hair, "You left a voicemail and you talked about Greg, and in our phone call you talked about Greg, and it made me feel…."

John was still looking up at him, eyes wider now, grinning.

"John, this isn't funny. I'm trying."

"Sherlock, Greg called me to tell me that I should get over here to help you. Nothing more. That's all. I think he likes you, likes it that we are together, could be together…." His words failed him as he gestured, squeezing Sherlock's knee. 

"I don't mind, if you're friends," Sherlock whispered, looking down at John, "I just….I was so lonely. And I owe you so much. I don't want it to just disappear, if he says he loves you back, or if he….."

Sherlock wiped tears away with the heels of his hands. He realized he was shaking, and couldn't remember the last time he ate. 

"Sherlock, you look exhausted. Food, and then sleep, ok? I don't want to have to nurse you back to health again," But John was still smiling, pushing himself up off the floor, giving Sherlock a hand to pull up and stand up. When they were both standing, John squeezed Sherlock close and kissed his neck and jawline. 

"Go change into pajamas, get into bed, and I'll get you a snack, ok?"

Sherlock did as he asked, his heart thrumming in anticipation. He loved holding John, loved his kisses on his skin, and he was hoping to convince him to stay. It was mid morning, sunlight streaming in the windows, but he was hopeful that a nap, with John laying beside him, would help set him right. 

He laid in his bed, listening to the sounds of John puttering in the kitchen, hoping they were sounds he would hear often, that he could hear forever. He fell asleep before John returned with the tea and toast. 

\---

Sherlock awoke, slightly disoriented. He could feel someone else in bed with him, and for a moment he panicked. Who was here? Why? He turned, and John was sitting up in Sherlock's bed, reading a novel. He was wearing a thin rimmed pair of reading glasses and his shoes were kicked off. John chewed thoughtfully on his thumb as he crinkled his eyebrows, concentrating on the novel. It was a bodice-ripper romance. 

He turned and looked down at Sherlock, "Good morning, er, evening," he smiled, running his fingers through Sherlock's wild hair, "I made breakfast, and lunch, but you slept through both. There are leftovers in the fridge."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, sitting up a bit to see John properly, "There were experiments in the fridge."

"That's what Hamish said you'd say. We got you a small fridge for your office and put them in there."

Sherlock looked at John, "Why are you moving stuff around in _my_ fridge?"

"Because, we care about not catching whatever diseases were on that foot and fingers that were in there, and we care about you, too. Hamish thought you'd get mad and then realize we did it because we liked you."

Sherlock huffed, turning his back to John, wrapping the blanket around him so John couldn't see him.

John went to the doorway and called out, "Hamish, what did you say Mr. Detective was going to do when we told him about the fridge and moving his foot and fingers?"

Hamish yelled back, "He was going to sulk, daddy, but he'd get over it. Is he sulking?"

John replied, "I think this is sulking," John looked down at Sherlock, pulling the comforter aside so he could see him. He had his eyes squeezed closed. 

"Hamish is the expert on Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock didn't respond, "and I know you're mad at me, and I understand you're upset with me regarding Greg, but we're not leaving. According to Greg, because he's my friend, you haven't slept or eaten since you were at my house-"

"-I napped and ate crackers."

"Not good enough," Sherlock blinked up at him. Captain Watson voice. "We're going to stay, I can lie on your bed, on top of the covers if you want, Hamish can take the sofa. Mrs. Hudson needs some looking after, too."

As Sherlock peeked out at him from under the covers, John leaned down and gave him one warm, deep kiss on the mouth, "When you're done sulking, you can join us in the living room for Cluedo."

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are!" John answered in a sing-song tone, closing Sherlock's bedroom door behind him.


	14. Be Quiet

Sherlock tried to sulk, on his own he could easily lay on his couch for days, stuck in his own mind. Today, when he tried to retreat to his mind palace, he was drawn away by the giggling in the front room. There were accusations and deductions and it was louder than his house had ever been. He decided to get up and at least have his sulk around other people. 

As soon as he opened his bedroom door, he smelled carrots, roast, and potatoes. He didn't know that his stove and oven even worked. Mrs. Hudson, John, and Hamish were all on the living room floor, playing Cluedo. John and Hamish were arguing whether or not the victim could kill themselves, as Hamish could see no other option. Mrs. Hudson was laughing, barely able to breathe, tears streaming down her face. 

He couldn't believe all these people were in his house. And that he didn't _mind._

Hamish saw him first, "Are you better, Mr. Detective?" He put his cards down, running to give Sherlock a huge hug. His head rested against his stomach, and instinctively, Sherlock stroked his hair.

"I'm much better, thank you, but it sounds as if you are having a difficult time out here with Cluedo."

Hamish grabbed Sherlock's hand, and tried to pull him down to sit on the floor by them. Sherlock shook his head, "Ribs are still sore," and he took a place on the couch, as near to them as he could get. John shifted around so he could lean his head against Sherlock's legs. Sherlock found he couldn't concentrate very well as John stroked circles into his calf muscle with lazy fingertips. 

John looked up at Sherlock, "Should you have been working? If you were still sore?"

Sherlock looked down, and shrugged, "I was bored, and it was a case they needed help with."

John snuggled closer to Sherlock's legs, no longer participating in the game. They decided to put the game away as the debate over the killer was growing more heated, and the smell of the food was distracting. John got up from the floor, and Sherlock patted the couch beside him, "Will you sit by me, for a minute?"

John smiled, sitting close so their thighs touched and Sherlock put his arm around John. Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to John breathe. He'd missed him just being near.

Sherlock could fall asleep again. His eyes snapped open when his lap was filled with a squirming eight year old. Mrs. Hudson grabbed Sherlock's phone, explaining that she had to get a photo of the three of them content together on the couch. Sherlock hated photos, but he smiled thinking of Hamish on his lap, holding his hand, and John's arm wrapped around the back of his shoulders. His mind felt quiet. After a few photos were taken, Hamish's stomach growl. 

"Ok, gentlemen, I need to feed you up." John grinned, Hamish bolting for the dining room table. John stood up, helping Sherlock up by the hips and his forearm, pulling him up to a standing position and rewarding him with a quick kiss to the mouth. 

John led him, by the hand, gesturing to him that he would sit at the chair across from him, but next to Hamish. The table was set with a mismatched set of dishes and chairs. He couldn't remember the last time this many people, the last time anyone, had come over to eat with him. He didn't spoil the moment by explaining most of the dishes had been used at one time or another for experiments. He made a mental note to get more dishes and silverware, in case they stayed, in case they moved in. 

His brain stopped at that thought. To the outside, it may have looked as if he were having a small stroke. It looked like an honest to goodness family here. John was ladling out stew into bowls onto plates with bread. John turned around, realizing Sherlock was still stuck, in the entryway, just looking and blinking at them. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock honey," John put everything down and came to his side, "Are you ok? Are you hurting?"

"No, I just… I just can't explain it right now."

"Are we too much, do we need to give you some space?"

"John, no. I'll try and formulate what's going on, but I don't want space," Sherlock kissed John again, just a quick peck, and sat down at the table where John led, by Hamish, across from John. 

He ate, and in between bites he watched everyone else eat. Hamish was looking up at him with such adoration he wanted to hug him. He talked about his tutoring, and how they were learning the planets and the solar system, and he talked about wanting a puppy. He was mature for his age, but Sherlock was happy to hear him prattle on about things other 8 year old boys would talk about. 

As the meal wound down, Sherlock felt toes poking at his legs. He looked up and smiled at John, sitting across from him. He felt better, much more well rested than he had in a long time. He poked John's feet back gently, and he smiled back. Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a look that conveyed to _behave_ , and Sherlock blushed. 

Sherlock's phone beeped. Forgetting his guests for a moment, he pulled out the phone quickly, rattling off the message out loud. 

"It's a case. There was a double homicide with more notes placed near the bodies."

"But you solved that case, Mr. Detective," Hamish said, as he looked up to Sherlock with a furrowed brow. 

"Well, this is an imitation or we got the wrong killer. I've got to go meet with Lestrade and see what is going on."

Sherlock began to run around the flat, getting dressed. Without thinking, he ran through the front door, hailing a taxi that he then shooed on. Remembering John, Hamish, and Mrs. Hudson, he ran back inside, giving Hamish and John kisses on the forehead, and hugged Mrs. Hudson goodbye. 

As he was standing there, he looked at John, "You're a doctor,"

"Yes," John responded, smiling. 

"You're an army doctor. You've seen loads of deaths?"

John, perplexed with the line of questioning, tilted his head, "Yes. Enough for a life time."

Sherlock grinned, "Do you want to see some more?"

"Oh god, yes."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and clucked at them, "You boys are absolutely scandalous, happy about running to a crime scene."

Hamish pouted, "I want to come, too."

Mrs. Hudson chimed in, "Hamish and I will be fine on our own, we can putter around and get my room set up."

John looked at Hamish, "Maybe another time. Just not today. We're just not sure what the scene will look like."

"Hamish, I'll bring you back some case notes, ok?" Hamish grinned at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him. Being very light, he swung the boy up into his arms, "You have to be good for Mrs. Hudson, and then you can help us with the loose ends, ok?"

Hamish grinned, looking at his daddy from over Sherlock's shoulder, "Loose ends, daddy! I get to help with that. Like when I was an anony-bus type!"

Laughing at Hamish, kissing him goodbye again, they were out the door. Sherlock grabbed John's hand as they climbed into the back of the cab, not letting go until they had to climb under the police tape to get into the crime scene. 

\----

The last crime scene John and Sherlock had been at together had been active, alive, full of people, and difficult to follow. This scene was quieter, there was only the two bodies with lots of lights shining on them. They were posed as if they had been sitting on either side of a great hexagon. 

Sally, who was curious and a little taken aback by Sherlock bringing someone to the crime scene, asked, "Who is this person?"

Greg smiled, answering her, "It's Sherlock's boyfriend, and he's an army doctor Captain, so I suggest we listen to both of them."

Sherlock noticed how John's eyes lit up with the praise. 

Sherlock also noticed Greg and John talking amongst themselves, but he tried to not pay attention. He simply did the work as he'd always done it, but he did get John's medical opinion on the cause of death. John determined, with the vomit present on the woman's lips, that there was something more than a gunshot that caused her demise. 

Sherlock then deduced that it was a copycat murder suicide. The husband, angry at the wife for cheating on him, gave her poison at gunpoint. Then, the husband, swallowed the same poison after disposing of the gun. He wanted their final act on this earth to be dramatic, and to make a statement, rather than just a simple shooting. He wanted them to be remembered, and to get back at his wife's lover by causing her pain in the last moments of her life. 

"Brilliant," John said, in front of all the police force, "That was absolutely amazing."

Sherlock turned to him, looking at him and then Greg, "Is that enough to go on, Detective Inspector? Is there anything else?" Sherlock had to bite his tongue and visit his mind palace to keep from blurting out something rude to Greg about the incompetence of his police force. As always, Greg was thankful, and was able to piece the rest of it together on his own. 

As they were walking down to the cab stop, John took his hand in his, "You are brilliant and amazing, you know. I'm not sure why you're dating me."

"Don't say that, John. You're amazing. Just in a different way,"

"A normal, mortal way, you mean?"

As they came around the corner, they saw a man pulling on another man. They were fighting, drunk, and it appeared one man was trying to make advances on the other that weren't welcome. It took a split second, but Sherlock and John looked at one another, and gave chase. The culprit took off running, and Sherlock followed, John staying behind just a moment to make sure the victim was alright before continuing. They ran, through alleyways, and crossed in front of traffic. As the man was turning, Sherlock saw a glint of metal. 

_Not again. Not another knife._

Before Sherlock could react, John had come from the other direction in the alley and tackled the man to the ground, knocking him out cold. When he came up, he was grinning. 

"See, John, you are brilliant. You keep saving my life," Sherlock was close to him, looking down at the unconscious man. 

"Yea, well, you're an idiot always getting yourself into trouble, so I guess we work well together." Giggling, Sherlock dialed Lestrade to deal with the paperwork and statements. John could hear Greg over Sherlock's phone, "How much trouble can you two get _into_ in just one evening?"

On the way home, John, still pumped full of adrenaline, gave chase himself through the backstreets until they got to Sherlock's flat. They barged in the door, trying but not succeeding in being quiet. John pressed Sherlock into the wall, kissing him deeply, his tongue pushing into his mouth. He pulled back too quickly, and Sherlock nearly fell forward trying to follow his mouth. 

"Was that our second date, Sherlock?" John smiled, pressing himself up against the detective, "If so, that was the best date I've ever been on."

Sherlock smiled, running his hands through John's windblown hair, trying to straighten it, "Yes, let's call it a date, then," and he grabbed John's neck and his back, pulling him flush with his body. He moaned. 

"Oh god, Sherlock, please, let's go to bed."

"Isn't Hamish still upstairs? With Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, always something," John groaned, kissing on Sherlock's neck, his jawline, "When he goes to bed, maybe?" 

"He'll be sleeping on the couch, outside our door," the detective answered. Even if he weren't outside the door, the boy could probably deduce everyting. 

"We can be quiet."

John grinned, "Let me call my parents. It's not terribly late, see if they can get him?" 

Sherlock shook his head, "He's going to want to talk about the case. Maybe tomorrow night?"

John laughed, "You are a ridiculous man," kissing his nose, his mouth. 

They entered the living room, expecting to see Hamish and Mrs. Hudson still playing Cluedo, or watching a movie. Instead, the dining room table was knocked over onto the floor, and Sherlock's lounge chair was on its side. The Cluedo pieces were strewn all over the floor. John frantically ran from room to room, calling for his son. 

Sherlock grabbed John, shaking him by his shoulders, "It was Mrs. Hudson's husband. Get yourself together. We'll find them."


	15. Brave Boy

Sherlock contacted Mycroft first, who was at home with Greg. The photo of Hamish, John, and Sherlock from just a few hours before was the most recent photo of Hamish. He had blonde hair, nearly white, but with curls. His eyes were blue. He was tanned, quite darker than Sherlock's complexion, and he was smiling widely. 

"I need this photo on every screen, on every mobile device, Mycroft," Sherlock commanded. Sherlock was a minor celebrity with his crime solving and his deduction ability, and his link to the boy would likely cause the man to panic and give the boy up. Then, they could work on a permanent separation between Mrs. Hudson and her abusive husband. 

Sherlock had to put it out of his mind if Hamish was being abused. He would lie to John if he had to, at least for a while. John was already in a frantic state. He explained the one time he'd lost Hamish in a store for half an hour led to him calling an ambulance due to a full blown panic attack. Sherlock kissed his forehead, holding both his hands, "I'm here now, we'll go through this together, and get him back together, yea?"

Sherlock and John loaded into a cab, Sherlock typing furiously on his phone. He backtracked to where Mr. Hudson lived, or the places he might have taken them. He worked through a variety of motives. He figured that the man had only been after Mrs. Hudson, but with Hamish there as a witness, he had taken him reluctantly. He would be running somewhere, possibly using the boy for blackmail against Mrs. Hudson. The other possibility he didn't want to think about was that he would kill or hurt the boy to get him out of the way. 

"John," Sherlock asked. He had to say his name multiple times, "Greg and Mycroft are going to sweep outside Mr. Hudson's apartment to see what they can find. We will go back from there and track the most likely results."

The taxi dropped them off at a two story, brick building. It had been converted to a group of flats. Sherlock mapped the location out in his mind. There were lights on in every flat except one that was on the second floor. As Sherlock was staring, creating a mental map, a black car pulled up. Mycroft and Greg got out of the car. Greg hugged John, and Mycroft squeezed his shoulder. 

"Mycroft, do you have any trace on Hamish and Mrs. Hudson?" He was begging in his mind, they had to be found. He had to be okay. 

"The images of the boy that have been spread through London indicate that a man was dragging him and Mrs. Hudson into this flat. We have the disadvantage as the room is dark. There has been no movement that the CCTV cameras can detect inside."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, "We have to get in there, we can't wait for the team to get here. I know the layout, I can climb up the back and get in there, see what is going on."

"I'm going with you."

The Captain Watson voice. He would not be swayed. Sherlock felt a chill go down his spine, for everyone involved, if anything happened to Hamish Watson. Sherlock was determined that the boy would come out safe. 

"Ok, we're going up the back. Do you have your gun, John?" John nodded. They took off running, their footfalls light, climbing to the back of the fire escape. All the rooms they climbed past had lights on, tv sets running, dishes being washed. When they got to the dark flat, they creeped along the landing, Sherlock stooping to pull up the window very slowly. 

They dropped down into the kitchen, and in the ambient light from the street they could see an overweight, sweaty man sitting in a chair, pointing his gun at Mrs. Hudson and Hamish. Mrs. Hudson was pleading, loudly, for Mr. Hudson to let the boy go. Sherlock imagined she heard them coming, and was wailing loudly to cover up their movement. 

Sherlock put his finger to his lips for John to be quiet. He snuck to the right to go behind Mr. Hudson. He was deciding how to grab Mr. Hudson and the gun when he saw Hamish twitch his leg. Mr. Hudson yelled at him, "Stop moving!" Sherlock took this as his cue.

Sherlock took a jumping leap and grabbed Mr. Hudson by the forearm attempting to wrestle the gun out of his hand. He heard John yelling for Hamish. Mr. Hudson dropped to the ground, and as he wrestled with him, he was able to grab the gun and slide it away from his reach. With Mr. Hudson's hands free, he took his thick fingers and squeezed around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock felt the room go even darker as he gasped for air, as he felt himself shut down. Suddenly, the pressure was released. 

He looked up behind the shoulder of Mr. Hudson. Hamish stood there, holding up a broken chair. He had cracked the chair against the back of his head, giving Sherlock the seconds he needed to overpower the man, and for John to come running over holding his gun on Mr. Hudson. 

Sherlock rolled off the floor, turning on the lights. Mrs. Hudson blinked at the sudden bright light. Mr. Hudson began to speak, "You fucking kid-" but the rest of his sentence was cut off when John pistol whipped him. 

Sherlock went to Mrs. Hudson to check her injuries. Just a few more scrapes and bruises. She began talking as Sherlock undid her rope bindings, "Sherlock, John, Hamish was so brave. He got out of his ropes very quickly, but he just pretended to still be tied up. He is such a smart boy."

Hamish was standing next to Sherlock when the police barged in the door. He jumped, and Sherlock gathered him into his arms, moving to stand next to John who still had his gun on Mr. Hudson. As soon as the suspect was handcuffed and in custody, Sherlock handed Hamish over to John. John and Hamish both began weeping. 

Sherlock suddenly interjected, "Let's all go home."

\----

Hamish was asleep in John's arms during the taxi ride home. Sherlock offered to sleep on the couch and allow John and Hamish to sleep in his large bed together, but John refused. He asserted that Sherlock would sleep on the other side of the bed, with Hamish in the middle, "It will make me feel better, knowing he's here, and you're here watching him."

Mrs. Hudson was shaking, but was set right with some whiskey. She couldn't imagine going back to her flat, and Sherlock made it clear that she could stay as long as she wanted, and forever would be just fine. She went to her bedroom and was asleep quickly. 

Sherlock and John collapsed on the bed, on either side of Hamish, without fully undressing. They turned so they could look at each other, and held hands above Hamish's head. They whispered, quietly, as Hamish slept. 

"John, stay, as long as you want. I can get Hamish a bed for the other spare room."

"You'll put him in the room with the experiments?"

"He'll love it," Sherlock grinned, moving his hand to stroke John's hair, "I was terrified for Mr. Hudson. I was afraid you were going to kill him."

"I was, too. I've never been so terrified. Hamish took care of us, too, though, didn't he? I watched him pick up that chair and bash him over the head. It was amazing. I couldn't move fast enough to get to you, and he had already untied himself and was ready to help you."

Sherlock leaned forward, brushing his lips lightly over John's. As he leaned up to avoid bumping into Hamish, he heard a sleepy voice chastise them, "No kissing!"

John and Sherlock settled into their sides of the bed, still grinning at one another. They slept in starts and stops until morning, stroking each other's hair and holding hands when they caught the other awake.


	16. Good Morning

Sherlock had been up for a while, just watching John and Hamish sleep. He reached over to brush hair out of Hamish's face, and as he moved, Hamish peeked his eyes open to stare at Sherlock. 

"Hi Mr. Detective."

"Hi, Hamish. Are you ok?"

"Yes. I was scared but I'm glad you and daddy saved me."

Sherlock chuckled, "You saved me. If you wouldn't have hit him with that chair-"

Sherlock felt himself begin to tear up, so Hamish crawled over his daddy, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissing his cheek, "You're ok, Mr. Detective."

John stirred, waking to find Sherlock crying and Hamish in his arms. John reached over to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls, "You two ok?"

"Yes, daddy. Mr. Detective is happy. And scared at the same time."

John wrapped his arms around Hamish and Sherlock as best he could, "Group hug!" and he took turns kissing Hamish and Sherlock on the crowns of their heads. 

\----

 

After breakfast, the flat was full of buzzing conversation. Greg and Mycroft came over to discuss what happened the night before. Mrs. Hudson was rubbing her eyes and her hip. Hamish kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek and told her that he was glad she was staying with Mr. Detective, as he was very brave and would keep her safe. She was so taken aback she just nodded her head and allowed Mycroft to make the arrangements to bring over the rest of her belongings from her flat. 

After plans were set for Mrs. Hudson, Greg pulled Sherlock and John aside, "We can watch Hamish, if you'd like. So you two can go on a proper date."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. They kissed Hamish goodbye, and took off for a cab. Sherlock felt his stomach rolling, both from nerves and from anticipation of being alone with John. 

_finally_

They agreed on a Chinese restaurant, which was nearly empty and allowed them a corner booth all to themselves. As they sat down at the table, Sherlock linked his fingers through John's. They didn't talk much, the adrenaline of the day wearing on them. John had shared more the last time they were together, so John asked Sherlock the obvious question. 

John asked him how he got involved in detective work. 

Sherlock sighed, sat back, and advised he'd rather tell him someplace more private. It was a long story to tell. 

They went to John's flat.


	17. The Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check tags for added trigger warnings. Most upsetting tags are past references. They are not graphic, but heavily implied, and may be triggering for some readers.   
> The National Sexual Assault Hotline is 1-800-656-HOPE (U.S.) or in the UK visit thesurvivorstrust.org

John led Sherlock into his flat. He rubbed his shoulders, the middle of his back. He could tell he was upset, breathing rapidly, eyes shifting. 

"Sherlock, sit down, sweetheart. I'll get you a scotch," John said over his shoulder as he went into the cabinet. Sherlock noticed the small differences between his flat and John and Hamish's. Though his was bigger, John's felt more comfortable. The living room was cluttered with books, bicycle parts, gears, a broken chemistry set, medical books. John and Hamish's life and hobbies were all laid out in the room. 

John returned with a tumbler for each of them, and sat next to Sherlock on the couch. He had to shove some books on to the floor to make room. Sherlock took a few moments to breathe and sip on his drink. John was content to stay quiet, rubbing his fingers over the top of Sherlock's knee. 

"When I was eight," He began, taking breaths between each sentence, "My family's neighbor." Another drink of scotch, "he abused me…he took me and…."

_couldn't say it. Even after all these years couldn't say it_

John stopped touching Sherlock, but moved so he was making direct eye contact, "Sherlock, you can tell me, or you can choose not to. It's ok either way."

Sherlock took John's hand, gripping it tightly, "I was curious, always getting into experiments and testing things in the garage. The neighbor, he was nice, at first. He would come over, would talk to my parents. He started to touch me a lot." 

John put his hand on Sherlock's neck, "It's ok, breathe, I'm here."

"He would touch me, and, bruise and," Sherlock tried breathing, but he could hear and smell and feel the calloused hands again.

"Sherlock, I'm here. I'm here," He was tethered to John's voice. He breathed again, taking another sip, starting again. 

"He hurt me quite a bit, the last time. Holding me down over a garage work table. I tried to cover the bruises, I stayed away, scared. He told me if I told anyone he would poison my dog, Redbeard. Mycroft found me. In the garden. When he sent me inside to my Mum and Dad," Sherlock's voice was shaking, tears falling, but he kept going, "Mycroft went next door and…. "

Sherlock couldn't continue at this point. He nearly crawled into John's lap, quiet sobs shivering into John's chest. John smoothed his palm down Sherlock's neck, down his back, rocking him gently, "You can tell me, you can tell me anything, sweetheart, but you don't have to."

The detective moved and sat himself fully on John's lap, causing John to huff with surprise, "Sherlock, let's go to the bedroom, I can hold you there, ok? We won't do a thing. We can lie down and I can wrap myself around you if you want?"

When Sherlock nodded, John helped them both stand up. As they walked to his bedroom, John texted Greg explaining that they may be home late. Greg replied that they could spend the night to watch Hamish if needed. When John looked up from his phone, he quickly put a hand out to Sherlock's hip to steady him, as he was tilting into the wall. Sherlock whipped around batting his hand away. 

Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes, "John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

John gave him space, smiling up at him, "There is nothing to be sorry about. I was shot right after eating crisps with lunch. To this day, I can't even see that brand of crisps without going into a near panic attack. It took me years to figure out the connection."

The brunette moved close to John, putting his forehead against his, "I'm sorry for what happened to you, but I'm glad you understand."

John pushed back, leaning up, kissing his mouth deeply, "I am especially sorry for you, as I knew what I was getting into, going into a war zone. You didn't ask for this to happen to you," he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair again, "Are you ok, laying down in bed with me, while we talk?"

Sherlock nodded, lacing his fingers through John's, pulling him into the bedroom. The kicked off their shoes, laying on the bed together, adjusting one another so Sherlock was partially laying on top of John, his head on his chest. They lay that way for a few moments, Sherlock forcing his breathing to slow down to a reasonable pace. 

"When Mycroft figured out what happened, after he sent me home, he went next door…he was 15, and he killed the neighbor. Smashed a garden shovel over his head. Just meant to knock him out while the police were on their way, but it was a bit too hard…..Mycroft was going to be sent away, and I had to prove it wasn't premeditated, that the bruises on me were from him….the neighbor."

John inhaled a breath sharply, "Jesus, Sherlock," and John used the pads of his thumbs to smooth over his cheekbones and under his eyes, wiping away the tears. 

Sherlock continued, talking into John's ear, "I was so angry, I had to prove to everyone how clever I was. I had no friends. I….started using cocaine. I was scared to be near anyone. It was….I was always doing dangerous things to keep myself entertained and busy. Mycroft pulled me aside, he was so disappointed, and told me that he didn't almost spend his life in jail just to watch me throw my life away, or kill myself, or live my life pushing others away. He helped me learn how to solve other cases, and we started working with Greg, that's how they met."

When Sherlock paused, John squeezed him tightly, kissing his cheek and jaw. 

"John," he pulled back so he could look into his face, "That's my default mode, is to be standoffish and arrogant and a right bastard. I've tried to be better, to do better, but sometimes I'm still angry and dark and depressed."

John smiled, pushing the fringe of hair out of his eyes, "I will take you however you are, Sherlock Holmes, exactly how you are."


	18. Kisses, 3am

Sherlock was trembling, linking his fingers through John's. He needed to tether himself to here and now, to feel John's pulse in his wrist with his fingertips. Sherlock moved his torso so his mouth could press against the pulse in John's neck. John shifted, pulling Sherlock so the lanky detective was half laying on top of John.

They didn't speak. John rubbed Sherlock's back with his free hand, rolling his wrist with moderate pressure to release the tension in between his shoulder blades. 

Sherlock spoke, "I was so scared for Hamish. That he would be abused. That he would've-"

John cut him off with a kiss to the side of his mouth, as he couldn't turn to kiss him properly, "You were brilliant."

Sherlock felt John's lips as he kept talking, "Your son was brilliant."

John pulled back and smiled, "He's ok. It turned out ok-"

Sherlock moved his arms and gripped John's forearms tightly, "I was panicked it wouldn't be alright. That he'd be hurt."

John didn't speak at first, looking over Sherlock's face, "Even if something had happened, Sherlock, it wouldn't have been your fault. Thank God it didn't, but none of this was your fault."

John moved himself closer to Sherlock, and he was aware of John's hipbone, his thigh, his chest. His chest and ears turned pink as he purposely shuffled himself so more of his body was touching John's. They leaned closer to one another, and John brushed his lips against Sherlock's, asking if he could kiss him. Sherlock nodded, and John replied with a kiss that was tender and passionate, rolling his body and arms so he pressed himself into him. 

Sherlock responded by pushing himself, and John, down into the mattress. John groaned, Sherlock nuzzling kisses down his jaw, his neck. He surprised himself when his erection pressed into John as he pulled himself completely on top of him so their pelvis bones lined up. Sherlock curled his upper body and he could still reach down and plant kisses across John's forehead, eyelids, cheeks, chin. They continued to kiss, open mouthed, tongues connecting, and Sherlock moaned as John bucked his hips upward so his erection matched up with Sherlock's.

"Sherlock," John huffed in-between kisses, "Sherlock, please….do you…" John took Sherlock's face between his hands, "I care for you, and about you, very, very much. I don't want this to be flippant, or to move too fast." 

Sherlock raked his fingers under John's shirt, circling his fingertips across his navel, his ribs, his hips. John sat up, rolling Sherlock but gripping him, forcing Sherlock to sit on John's lap, legs wrapped around him. Though their cocks and pelvises were no longer rubbing against each other, Sherlock felt an itch and a burn to get _closer_. He ground himself down into John's lap, forcing more friction against him. Sherlock finally pulled John's shirt up and off, kissing his nipples, noticing the star shaped scar on his left pectoral and shoulder. He stopped rocking on John's lap and studied it a moment. 

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, looking into John's pink and flushed face. A small bead of perspiration formed on his upper lip. As John gathered his thoughts, he gently pressed his fingers into Sherlock's ribcage, feeling for lingering bumps or bruising. John looked up into his face, "I was shot, and nearly died. This was before I moved to London, when I was just trying to go on my own, be my own person, I joined the army. I was shot, tending a wounded solider. Afghanistan."

Sherlock raised himself on his knees, towering over the doctor. John leaned back creasing his eyebrows. Sherlock leaned to whisper into his ear, "I'm glad you made it. I'm glad you're here." He kissed his neck, and sucked, drawing a mark on his neck by his collarbone. John was pushing up with his hips now, begging for Sherlock to move. As Sherlock leaned back, John unzipped his trousers and asked Sherlock if this was ok. Sherlock peeled off his clothing as John stripped himself. 

They sat for a moment, each on the bed, staring at one another. Sherlock moved so he was poised on John's lap, his pelvis lined up with John's, but now there was no clothing in the way. His precome leaked onto John's penis, thick and wide, red with need, and John gulped, grabbing Sherlock's ass and pushing them down into one another. 

Sherlock couldn't help but yelp at the feeling of their cocks nearly lining up, the heads of them bumping against one another, the leaking fluid mixing as they ground their hips together. John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock, both of their faces growing more red, perspiration forming on their lips and foreheads. 

"John, I won't break, I want you, I won't break…." John kissed him on the mouth, gently, "I know. I know you're strong, but I don't want to push you-"

Sherlock grabbed both of their throbbing erections, smearing the precome up and down their shafts. From root to tip he massaged them both, together, he was still on his lap as much as he could be, his heels digging into John's lower back. They breathed and kissed and nipped at each other's mouths, finally coming with a deep shout and Sherlock shuddering on top of John, biting down on his shoulder. 

John rolled them, milking both of them until there was nothing left. They laid down, facing one another, the sticky mess on John's hands, their thighs, and bellies. They watched each other, looking into each other's faces, as their breathing slowed and returned to normal. 

John kissed Sherlock's chest, his shoulder, his arms, his fingertips, his stomach, his hips, his thighs, his calves, his feet. Even though he was over sensitized from already orgasming, he loved John's slowly kisses over every part of him, from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes. He rolled, laughing, as John tickled him, or blew air gently over his goosepimpled skin. As the come dried and Sherlock shivered, John left, returning with a warm flannel and a dry towel. He gently washed every part of Sherlock's skin. He watched, his eyes heavy, as John cared for him, drying him, giving him a pair of shorts to sleep in and finally crawling in next to him, positioning themselves so Sherlock was the little spoon. 

"John…" 

"Yes, love?" Sherlock's heart rate sped up. He felt the words against his ear, and the rumble of John's voice against his back. 

"So, Hamish is ok? If we come back tomorrow?" Sherlock yawned, pulling the covers tighter around them. 

"Yes, yes he'll be fine. Sleep, I'll be here when you wake up," Sherlock slept, feeling John's arm wrap around his midsection. 

\----

In the middle of the night, Sherlock panicked, unsure where he was, not sure who was breathing on his neck. He had a fleeting image in his mind of Hamish alone, tied up, and someone trying to touch him. At first, his instinct was to kick back, or bite, to find the boy. He stopped, breathing in, recalling the smell of John. He was in John's bed. He could hear John stirring, and hear his voice from far away. 

"Sherlock, love, I'm here, it's me,"

Without recollection, Sherlock had launched himself off the bed onto the floor. John had kept his distance, not restraining him, not touching him, but he'd opened the door and started talking to him. John was familiar with PTSD response. Of course, he was an army doctor. The open door would help Sherlock realize he wasn't trapped. John not touching Sherlock would help him, in his panic, understand that John wasn't trying to restrain him. John used only his voice to ground Sherlock back to the present.

Sherlock spoke from the floor, his face and fingers pressing into the carpet. He was reminding himself that he was here, in John's room, not anywhere else. "What time is it?" John crawled across the bed to his night stand, pulling up his phone. "It's 3am, Sherlock. Do you want to come back to bed?"

"Is Hamish ok?" Sherlock crawled up onto the bed, eyes shifting and looking over John's face, lit from the light pouring in from the hallway. 

"Oh Sherlock," John helped him back onto the bed, their naked skin rubbing against one another's. As Sherlock shook, John whispered into his ear, Sherlock began to relax.

"I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much," John guided the taller man so they were face to face again. John hooked his calf around the back of Sherlock's leg, forcing them together. He kissed Sherlock, gently, eyes open. 

"Can we, can we go home tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, his voice still hoarse with sleep and from crying. 

"Yes, yes Greg," 

John curled himself and the blankets around Sherlock, ghosting his lips across Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock tensed, waiting for John to catch his error. 

John didn't correct himself. Instead, he slowly relaxed, his breathing became deeper, and it was clear he was deeply asleep. 

Sherlock tried to relax, but he laid awake. At 4:12 am, he decided to leave the bed.


	19. Muscle Memory

Sherlock peeled himself away from John and moved to the sitting room. He stared out the window, rubbing his arms, watching as the sky lightened. He slowly realized John had been calling his name over and over. 

"Sherlock, love, are you alright?" John sat beside him, and Sherlock, almost imperceptibly, shifted away. He still didn't speak. 

John tapped his shoulder, and Sherlock responded by rolling his shoulder away. 

"Please take me home, John," Sherlock was doing his best to keep his breathing steady, his tears from forming. His hands shook as he did his best to keep his tone even, but not a completely flat affect, "I just need to go home."

John sat himself on the floor, looking up at Sherlock's face, "Sherlock, what did I do, tell me…"

Sherlock shook his head, "It's not," he stopped, pulling his hands back as John tried to take them, "It's not _you_ , I just can't do this. I can't do this. I've tried. I'm broken and I can't be fixed."

"Sherlock, we just started. We can slow down. Let's-"

Sherlock kept his eyes down, on the floor. His brow was furrowed, hands twitching as he moved his fingers together. He startled John with the force and deep tone of his voice, "Stop, take me home."

John nodded. John moved into the bedroom, picking their clothes up from where they were thrown the night before. Sherlock and John dressed silently, Sherlock's only option to re-wear last night's. Rumpled, hair sticking up at all angles, and his face creased with sheet marks, Sherlock did his best to look presentable with a splash of cold water and a comb through of his hair with his fingers. John stood at the front door, his hand twitching and injured shoulder drooping. 

_psychosomatic injury that manifests itself when the injured party is stressed. body recalls in muscle memory the pain of a past stressful event._

John gave distance as they went outside, purposefully sitting as far away in the cab as he could. Sherlock felt more comfortable with anger, awkwardness, and hurt feelings. He knew this pain was the inevitable outcome, so he consoled himself with the idea he was being kinder by cutting it off as quickly as possible.

As they arrived at Sherlock's flat, Sherlock was bounding out of the cab before it was fully stopped. He carelessly threw some money at the cabbie. He went to the door, hearing John behind him. As he opened the door, he wished he could've blocked the scene from John. 

On his couch, Greg was sitting with his children, Emilie and Clara, and Hamish. Reading a story. He was acting out all the characters, and all three children were engrossed. Sherlock felt John inhale behind him. He knew that if he looked at John, the psychosomatic injury would be manifested even stronger. 

Greg looked up, his eyes flitting from John to Sherlock. It didn't take a genius to feel the tension, "Didn't expect you back so soon. The girls' mother lives in this neighborhood so I thought I'd have them come over for a visit. We can go, to give you privacy."

John's voice cracked, "Yes, we need to go. We are all going." 

Hamish looked up, his thoughtful eyes looking from John to Sherlock. He tilted his head, "Daddy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's time for us to go." Again, Captain Watson voice. Hamish bit his lip, but kept talking. 

"Did you say something, daddy, to Mr. Detective? Did you do something? Do you guys just not like each other? Mr. Detective, why aren't you and Daddy friends anymore? It's something daddy said because when I mentioned it, Mr. Detective broke eye contact. So, what did you say, daddy?"

Sherlock stared at Hamish. John was breathing in through his nose, his neck was flushed. 

"Hamish, you need to go, you too, Greg, Mycroft," Sherlock gestured to the door. 

"Daddy, what did you say-"

Both at once, both of their nerves frazzled, Sherlock shouted, "He doesn't even realize he said it!" and John shouted, "I don't know what I said or did!"

Hamish turned to Greg Lestrade, "Daddy talks to you all the time, even when you're not there," Hamish turned back to Sherlock and John, "Did you keep talking to Uncle Greg instead of Mr. Detective? It makes _me_ upset when you talk to him and you get mixed up on who is really there and who you're talking to-"

John barked an order, "Hamish, be quiet. We are going home!!"

Greg told John to calm down, which only caused John to rush his child and leave even faster. When they were gone, Mycroft came out of the kitchen. Emilie and Clara looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. 

"Why would anybody be upset if he's talking to me?" Greg finally asked. Mycroft and Sherlock gave each other a look, Sherlock going so far as to roll his eyes. 

"You really don't know, husband dear?" Mycroft asked, wiping his hands on a dish towel. 

"I have no idea."

"I love you, husband, but sometimes you have the detective skills of a goldfish," Greg protested, but Mycroft kept talking, "He's been," he mouthed the next two words so the children didn't catch on, " _in love_ with you for years, and Hamish deduced that John did or said something that upset Sherlock in regards to you."

Greg looked at Sherlock, "Oh, I see. I just, I didn't-" Mycroft gave him a look, and Greg stopped talking. 

Sherlock swayed a bit. He put his hand on the back of the couch to steady himself, "It's ok. It's just not meant to be. I'm not good for him… He deserves," He thought about his words with two little girls in the room, "someone who is whole, better."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft moved to embrace him, but Sherlock put his hand up. Mycroft stayed in the kitchen doorway, searching his face.

"I know what you're going to say, Mycroft. Though I appreciate the sentiment, we both know my temperament and personality. Being in a relationship," Sherlock inhaled, "shouldn't have even been attempted. It's better to be alone. Alone protects me."

Greg shook his head, "We can go talk to him, you can go talk to him. What you're saying, it's not true-"

"Please leave." Sherlock snapped, still unsteady on his feet. He shuffled to his bedroom, climbing into bed while wearing his same clothes. 

 

Only when he heard everyone leave his flat did he allow to cry.


	20. Only Friend

Sherlock woke to Mrs. Hudson batting at his head with a blanket? Pillow? Towel? His eyes hurt and his head throbbed. His throat was scratchy. 

"Sherlock, wake up. Your phone has been beeping so much it's driving me crazy," Mrs. Hudson stood at the side of his bed, dressed and ready to go out, makeup applied and purse in hand. He poked his head out from under the covers, just his bloodshot eyes and his greasy curls visible above the duvet. 

She turned on the light, Sherlock squinted, trying to push back down under the covers.

"No, you don't, young man. You've been in here for the better part of four days. You aren't really sleeping, you compose sad music that you scratch out at all hours of the day, and you aren't eating. I don't think you've bathed for days. You have to join the land of the living."

Sherlock groaned, and Mrs. Hudson responded by throwing the duvet across the room. He yelped, because he was only in pants, but she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him into the bathroom. 

"Shower, shave, for god's sake, brush your teeth, then you're taking me out for brunch," Sherlock quirked an eyebrow up at her, "No arguments, go!" 

When he entered the shower, he had to put his hand on the wall to steady himself. As the water ran through his hair and over his face, he could still smell John's cologne, and his thighs were still sticky. He knew it was vile, but he couldn't stand the thought of washing everything from John away. 

When he was dried, dressed, and in the living room, Mrs. Hudson was no where to be seen. He called for her. No answer. He imagined she must have grown impatient, as he'd been in the bathroom at least for half an hour. 

He went to his fireplace, looked over all the relics he'd collected. He ran his fingers over a bracelet a young woman had given him as a thank you for finding her bunny. A ring, that only fit his pinky, was a gift from a high ranking government official who appreciated Sherlock returning some compromising photographs. When he got to Billy, his skull, he patted him, saying, "My only friend." He picked the skull up, taking out a cigarette and his lighter. He knew Mrs. Hudson would smell it and be angry, but he couldn't be arsed to care. 

As he was nearing the end of it, he tried to blow smoke rings up in the air. He looked over another souvenir, a heart shaped keychain. This was one of his most prized gifts, as it was given from a gay woman who was trapped in an abusive marriage. He'd been able to free her from her husband's blackmail, and she'd sent the pendant with the marriage date to her wife engraved on it. 

He threw the butt into the fireplace, and lit his second one. As he felt the dizzying rush of nicotine, he heard someone entering the flat. 

"That's not good for you."

_john_

Sherlock turned around. John looked, as always, handsome, but his eyes were bloodshot and his shoulder was drooping. He clenched and unclenched his fist in an afford to stop it from trembling. 

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock coughed as he spoke, as he hadn't drank anything substantial for days. He threw the cigarette into the grate next to the other one. 

John crinkled his eyebrows, "You, you texted me?" Sherlock searched his face. He knew John well enough to know he was a terrible liar. He'd at least told him the truth.

"But I-" Sherlock went over to his phone. He saw messages from Greg, Mycroft, John, and one from Hamish that were from the past few days. As he scanned his sent folder, he saw two messages: "John, come to Baker Street, if convenient.-SH" and "If inconvenient, come anyway.-SH"

_Mrs. Hudson_

John had responded by darkening his door, less than an hour later. In looking back over John's clothes, he realized he'd been on his way to work. He'd had a sitter for Hamish, most likely, so he'd called in sick or simply dashed away from his duties to see Sherlock. As soon as he could. 

"I didn't. I didn't text you, but I'm glad, it's okay," Sherlock said, keeping his voice neutral. 

John stared at him, his blue eyes looking into Sherlock's. He straightened himself up, "What happened, Sherlock? Hamish is incredibly angry with me. He's 8 going on 14. What did I do, tell me?"

Sherlock picked at his jacket sleeves, looking down, "John, you don't even remember what you did. It's nothing. It's better because I'm not good enough, you need someone else-"

"I don't want anyone else. I've not…I don't do this, Sherlock," John was pleading now, taking a step closer, "I know we've not really…been together all that long. But I've not been interested in anyone else for years. I assumed I'd always live alone."

"You have Hamish," Sherlock punctuated the word _you_ , digging in the fact that Sherlock was completely alone, and John had a son. A family. 

"I do have Hamish. But he's so mad at me, I can't talk to him. He won't tell me what he's deduced, because that's _rude_ \- something he learned from you, by the way- but for once, I wish he'd deduce it and tell me everything. I have no idea. Did I push you? Did I hurt you? I - goddamn it, Sherlock, I am falling in love with you. And I'm telling you, because I want you to know. You're important to me, and I don't want to regret--" At this, John's voice and composure wavered, "I don't want to regret not trying. To tell you how I feel. I don't want to regret. No matter what you decide."

Sherlock looked at John. His eyes were watering, but he was pursing lips together so hard they were white. 

"John, I…I care for you a lot, too. I'm not used to this, either. I am not good at this. But you don't love me. You love Greg."

"Greg?" John blinked at Sherlock. He took a moment before responding, "Sherlock, I did love Greg for a long time, and it's something I may never fully get over. But I was never brave enough to tell him. I can't _not_ tell you. I have to…it won't be good, if I didn't try my best. To make sure you knew," John ran his fingers through his hair, "Hamish would never forgive me. And Hamish, Hamish _loves_ you. And his opinion is one of the most important to me."

Sherlock finds his heart beating nearly out of his chest. He opens his mouth, then closes it. John's face is expectant, open. 

"You called me 'Greg'," 

John tilts his head, "What?"

"When we were lying in bed, falling asleep in the early morning, you called me 'Greg'," Sherlock forced himself to make eye contact with John, "You still love him. You're not over him."

John rubbed his hand over his eyes, "Sherlock, it's not like that-"

"What else is it like, then?" Sherlock's hands are balled into fists, his breath hitching. 

John looked at the mantle, then looked back at Sherlock, "What if you called me Billy."

Sherlock stared at John, tossing his hair out of his eyes, "That doesn't make any sense."

"Or did your mother ever call you Mycroft? Or vice versa?"

Sherlock crossed his arms, "This has nothing to do with-"

"It has everything to do with it. Unrequited love or no, Greg is still my best friend. After Hamish, I say his name at least as many times in a day. I do talk to him, when I'm by myself. Because I had no one else to talk to," John gestures to the skull, "That's all it meant. Yes, I still have to work through some things, but I choose you. And Hamish chose you. And I'm not giving up without a fight."

The Captain John Watson voice at the end. No use in arguing any further. 

Sherlock looked John over, from his bright blue eyes to his blonde, silvery hair. Normally assertive, he looked terrified. The doctor who went to war, lived through being shot, the doctor who tackled murderers in alleys without a thought, was trembling as he waited for Sherlock's answer. 

Sherlock took two large strides and stood in front of John, pressing him up against the wall, "You mean this, every word you said?" He asked, looking down into John's face. 

"Yes," John replied breathlessly.

Sherlock kissed him, quickly and deeply, surprising John. They kissed, eyes open, their noses and teeth clashing together. 

"Fight for me, then, because I think, I think I've been falling in love with you, too," Sherlock ran his thumb over John's lower lip, and cradled his face in his right hand, "But Mrs. Hudson promised I'd take her out for brunch. Then she texted _you_ , pretending to be _me_ , and rudely left us," Sherlock smiled again, kissing John on his cheek, moving closer to speak into John's ear, "Would you like to go out with me instead?"

John turned Sherlock so he could see him. He smiled up at him, his grin crinkling his eyes, "Oh God yes."

 

Sherlock laced his fingers through John's as they walked outside.

**Author's Note:**

> Check tags for added trigger warnings. Most upsetting tags are past references. They are not graphic, but heavily implied, and may be triggering for some readers.  
> The National Sexual Assault Hotline is 1-800-656-HOPE (U.S.) or in the UK visit thesurvivorstrust.org


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